


Cabin Pressure Drabbles

by smallsteps32



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:43:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 32,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallsteps32/pseuds/smallsteps32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of tumblr drabbles that I thought I had posted but apparently haven't, so... </p><p>Sit back and enjoy a collection of short fics, mostly Douglas centric, which will make you coo, laugh, and possibly cry if you're particularly sentimental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prompt: Orchid, Twinkle, Bracelet.**

It was the middle of winter, but Douglas had bundled himself in his jacket and coat, stolen the deck-chair that Carolyn kept in the hold, and set himself up outside the porta-cabin. _Behind_  the porta-cabin, to be precise – that way Carolyn wouldn't see him from the window.

He wouldn't have needed to brave the cold if the snow hadn't delayed their flight a whole week. The box of orchids would have been gone, not wilting in their cardboard box. Now he was burdened with the task of picking through them to find what few flowers were still good enough to trade in Moscow – when they eventually got there.

"Isn't there some sort of smuggler's rule?" Martin asked from Douglas' side, where he sat upon a garden chair commandeered from the engineer's hut. "Never get the same stock, o-or never go back to the same person?"

"I don't know what mafia flicks you've been watching, but that's not how it works," Douglas replied, smirking as he stole a sideways glance at his companion.

Martin's cheeks were flushed red from the cold, and his lips were set in the determined concentration that he epitomised. His slim hands were busy winding together the withered orchids that Douglas had discarded.

"What are you doing?"

"Daisy chains," Martin replied, without looking up.

"Those are  _orchids_."

"I know they're orchids," Martin sniped, then sat back and lifted a hoop of flowers onto the tip of his finger. "Come here."

Without waiting for Douglas to assent, Martin reached out and slipped the ring of orchids over his wrist, concluded the motion with a smug 'hmph."

"Are you asking me to be your prom date?" Douglas drawled, but he shook his wrist so that the tattered flowers were no longer at risk of falling into the snow.

"No, I'm getting some use out of something you were planning on throwing away, and using my time productively."

"Are you sure?" Douglas inquired, smiling as he reached up and tipped Martin's hat where it was keeping his head nice and warm. "There's a definite loving, prom-aspiring twinkle in your eyes."

"You're a sod," Martin muttered, but the corners of his lips curled upwards as he folded his arms and adjusted the folds of his coat against the cold.

"You didn't  _have_  to come out here with me."

"It was heavily implied that I did," Martin retorted. "You were standing at the door hinting at me – I-I thought you wanted to sneak off for some kissing, not to sort through your failed haul."

"I'm sure I can muster up some kissing, Captain," Douglas remarked, and dropped the orchids in his hands into the box at his feet. His fingers brushed Martin's cheek.

Martin rolled his eyes, but leaned across the space between them to receive a brief kiss – shorter than Douglas would have liked, but still worth the exasperated expression on Martin's face when he settled back down.

"You're still a sod."

"I have an orchid bracelet that says otherwise."


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: Rain, Tea, Photo**

The thing about being Douglas Richardson was that in spite all the long-standing failures in his life, he was still remarkably lucky. Talented and relatively hard-working when he needed to be, yet, but he was marginally content with the understanding that he could breeze through life and never quite hit the rocky bottom of utter disaster.

However, when an unlucky day came around once in a blue-tinted moon… it didn't just rain, it poured.

More aptly, it poured over his head as Douglas knelt beside his beautiful Lexus, the one crowning jewel in the carved out hollow that was his actually rather cosy set-up on the edge of Fitton, and used all manner of polish and filler and buffer to remove the grotesque disfigurement that marred its shiny physique.

He had arrived home via taxi from the air-field, only to discover that in his absence some urchin had keyed his car. It was easily fixable, with some elbow grease, but Douglas could have done without the gallons of water pouring over his head and making his hair drip into his eyes.

Never mind.

Once the job was done, Douglas hurried inside, dried himself off, and set about making himself a warm cup of tea. A perfectly made cup of tea could make even Martin's pithiest fit of pique half-way bearable. True, Arthur couldn't quite make a perfect cup of tea, but he was getting better.

As the charming fumes wafted up his nose and the warmth chased away the chills under his skin, Douglas sighed and looked about his living room. It was still and quiet and far more empty than he was comfortable with, but he was more used to it than he had been used to anything else. The stillness was one companion that didn't stay away long, and it panged all the more after the stressful, strained sort of flight that their last had been.

It was only when he lowered himself into the armchair that Douglas' eyes fell upon the oddly shaped parcel on his coffee table. He plucked it up and inspected it, and suddenly recalled taking it from Arthur and forgetting to open it in light of a million and one other things that he was putting off.

Douglas set about unwrapping it, but paused to read the note that was slipped inside.

_Hi, Douglas – we got the prints and Mum said there were too many so I remembered that you said you were excellent at photography but a bit annoyed that Mum made you be in the photos instead of letting you take them. Anyway, this is a spare one for you. We've all got one now, which is brilliant, because we all look really great. – Love Arthur._

Douglas couldn't help but smile. He set the note aside and unwrapped the hard, rectangular object. It was clear that Arthur had put a lot of effort it. There was a frame and everything.

It was the photograph that really made Douglas smile though. It pushed the rain and the poor flight and the scratch along his car – all of it from his mind.

Carolyn had wanted company photographs as well as a video, so they had all lined up, tongue in cheek, and played along.

It was worth it.

The four of them looked good together, standing side by side under GERTI's wing – MJN all together and smiling, pretending that they were a happy family and smirking because they really were, under all of their bluff.

Douglas' day got a little bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: Fever, Lobster, Blue**

Douglas would be damned if this fever got the best of him.

The stars had aligned and given him a perfect day.

This was the first time in years that he was in the country on his eldest daughter's birthday.

Verity was in a fantastic mood due to a flurry of success on her Master's Degree and had agreed to spend the day with him. When asked what she had always wanted, her answer had been 'to eat a lobster dinner' – one that she didn't have to pay through the nose for.

Martin agreed to collect the perfect lobster from a 'friend' on the coast, earning Icarus a few pounds and Douglas a happy daughter.

The stars had aligned…seen Douglas' joy, and decided to strike him down with a high temperature, slight dizziness, and a tickly throat.

Not that that would stop him. Douglas was a trooper. Verity was going to have a nice day if it killed him. He'd just be sure to die after she'd left.

Douglas was just putting the finishing touching to the meal, embellishing so that he could pull it out later without needing to fuss in the kitchen and lose precious moments with Verity, when said daughter appeared at his side. He hadn't heard the front door, and was slightly ashamed to admit that he startled…if not sluggishly.

"Oh, darling, I didn't hear-"

"Are you alright, Dad?" Verity asked.

Her eyes wandered to the lobster and childlike anticipation flashed across her face, but she hastily resumed her concern as she placed a hand on her father's back.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Now, how about you-"

"No, you're not fine," Verity shook her head. Her voice was soft, the perfect bedside manner. "How about you go and sit down."

Douglas thought he put up a fight, but in the end he found himself being pushed down onto the sofa. The next moment he was swathed in the big blue blanket from the guest room that both of his daughter's used. The next…he wasn't sure when it happened, but he had tea with honey wrapped between his palms.

"But your birthday – the lobster-"

"Are you kidding?" Verity flopped down on the sofa beside him and tucked her feet up. In her hands, she held a bowl filled to the brim with lobster. "I'm eating this whether you can or not."

Warmth settled in Douglas' chest and he couldn't stifle a faint chuckle, or a smirk, as he watched his daughter.

She was beautiful as ever, smug smile fixed on her lips as she reached for the remote and turned on the television. She looked perfectly content.

"God. I can't remember the last time I had the TV to myself. My roommate normally hogs it – this is delicious by the way."

Douglas hummed his acknowledgement and lay back, hugging the blue blanket more tightly as the fever and contentment took hold. Verity talked to him even though she wasn't sure he was listening, and it was perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt: Bannana, Stew, Teddy**

**douglasrichardsonskitkat**  answered:martin/douglas banana, stew, teddy

It was all the banana's fault.

Or, to be more exact, the banana fun-facts that Arthur had found on the internet telling him that bananas were better before they were ripe…or long after…he couldn't remember.

That was the mantra that Douglas had clung to, throughout the second leg of the flight, during the ride to the hotel, and all the way up to their hotel room as he grew queasier. It was that or turn on Arthur, which Douglas had steadfastly refused to do...once he had calmed down.

"How does one ruin banoffee pie? You chop up the bananas, you put them on the base, bang on some cream-"

"I know, Douglas," Martin had sighed as he had slid his First-Officer's arm over his shoulder. "You've said that three times."

"Oh…have I?" Douglas had murmured. "The nausea must be making me dizzy."

Now, Martin slid into the darkened hotel room, cheap but medicinal stew in one hand, spontaneous gift in the other. He kicked the door shut and crossed the room.

Douglas was huddled in bed, covers bundled around him as a faint breeze blew in through the open window – he couldn't decide whether he was hot or cold.

Gently nudging the lump that was Douglas' shoulder, in order to check that he was awake and alert him to his presence, Martin lowered himself onto the mattress beside him. He kicked off his shoes and placed the stew on the bedside table, then turned and waited for Douglas to stop grumbling.

"What…go to sleep, Martin…"

Douglas rolled over onto his back, kicking the covers down. Even in the weak light from outside, his skin was clammy and the lines around his eyes were severe.

"I brought you something," Martin announced, but Douglas cut him off with a hand thrown up and curled around his wrist.

"I'm not hungry…I won't be hungry until the end of time. Arthur's killed me."

"Well, as your Captain, I have to insist that you eat some of the stew. If not now, then later," Martin replied softly. Douglas only grunted, so Martin brushed a hand over his sweaty brow and leant down a press a small kiss to his unusually rumpled hair. "As your partner, I've brought you something to cheer you up."

From behind his back, Martin revealed the small teddy-bear that he had found in the airport gift-shop. He had nearly walked past the shop, until the bear, in its quaint Captain's uniform, had caught his eye.

Douglas' brow furrowed, but in his sluggish state, he reached out and took it.

"He wears your uniform better than you do."

"He's to keep you company while I go and finish the paperwork," Martin informed him, ignoring the prod as he squeezed Douglas' shoulder. "Do you want him?"

"No," Douglas grumbled, but he rolled onto his side, taking the bear with him.

Smiling to himself, Martin left Douglas with his phone within reach, bear tucked under his elbow, snoring before the door had even closed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Prompt: Househunting**

If there was one thing that Douglas had never thought he would be doing again, it was uprooting himself and starting afresh… and yet, he was pleased to be doing it. This time there was a sense of finality to it, a sense of… realness.

That wasn't to say he hadn't loved his wives. Douglas had loved them, even if sometimes his booze addled memory made it seem like he had only loved the idea of them. Douglas was a hopeless romantic to the bitter end, and he had loved them.

That was why he had put on such an act – tried so hard to keep them, to please them, to be exactly the sort of man that he wanted to be. The perfect husband: charming, loyal, hard-working, with a dash of excitement and eager to please… and they had all fallen for it until the cracks started to show.

Even when the worst of the cracks had been paved over and he was eight years sober with a fairly stable job, Helena had seen through the cracks. Underneath the act was an aging man, a failed pilot, a recovering alcoholic, and an unwillingly absent father. So the pretending had come to an end.

Which was why this time, something felt real and secure and although it was tentative, Douglas was sure that what he and Martin had was going to last. Because it wasn't perfect, they weren't the sort of people that bought each other chocolates and wrote poetry. They gve each other the better landings and played games long after the air-field had emptied and the groundsmen had gone home. They were the best of friends, and often the worst of enemies, and somewhere in the middle they were colleagues who knew exactly how persnickety and petulant and sarcastic and caustic and down-right unlucky both of them could be.

And for the first time in what seemed like forever, Douglas felt like somebody could  _see_  him.

That was why they were house-hunting. It was a natural step in most relationships… but that wasn't why they were doing in. In fact, Douglas had been wary about suggesting it for exactly that reason. But they agreed to it because it was practical – and when Douglas thought about it, the dedication that Martin put into things being 'practical' was quite endearing.

Martin couldn't stay in Parkside forever. Douglas refused to spend another night listening to students through the floor.

Douglas couldn't share the house that he and Helena had bought with Martin. It didn't seem fair.

Martin's choice of house was practical and affordable and robust and everything that he valued.

Douglas' choice of house was… too close to perfect. He wasn't the sort of man that made a perfect husband, no matter how much he pretended, but he wanted it more than anything. It was the romantic heart in him. He wanted a white-picket fence and space enough for guests. More than that, he wanted a garden – a proper one, with grass and a patio, room for his youngest daughter to play and space for if they ever wanted a pet, with an area of course for when he retired and spent his days tending to flowers and vegetables and a herb garden and pulling fruit from a small tree to turn into jam.

Inside every daring, adventurous sky-god, there was a quaint little poet's heart that wanted to indulge in small luxuries with his beau whilst a family of bluebirds fluttered at the bottom of the garden that he really wanted.

Douglas didn't tell Martin. The romantic in him shone out whenever they were together, but he reigned it in when it came to decisions… best not to scare him away, or worse, to accidently fool him like he had his exes.

So Douglas gazed wistfully at the sweet little houses that huddled together in the half-mile surrounding the air-field, said nothing, and listened instead to Martin as he chirped away and marched them through a variety of unfamiliar and unbearably modern flats.

"This one's quite near the main road, and it's got excellent phone reception."

"This one's quite cheap, a-and we wouldn't have to drag ourselves up eight flights of stairs after a long – well, a long flight."

"This one's got new fittings! Douglas, look! I-I think this might actually be marble!"

And yet, in spite of all of his exclamations, Martin had turned down every single one. So, the subject was dropped and they visited fewer flats until they were visiting none at all. It wasn't until a long stand-by turned into the whole crew just sitting around with nothing to do that Martin brought it up again.

"I-I really think we need to widen our net a bit," Martin said as he tapped the top of his pen on a pile of paperwork that had been done twice already. He was behind his desk, as he nearly always was, but had given in to the sluggishness that had seized them all and shirked his jacket in favour of rolled up shirt-sleeves. "W-we need to make a decision before my next rent is due."

Douglas sighed and turned off his phone, watching the virtual newspaper slide away, then looked across the room from the dingy porta-cabin sofa.

"We've looked at hundreds of flats and you've turned down every one," he said.

"That's because you didn't seem to be with me," Martin replied.

Douglas rolled his eyes.

"Martin, I know that your head is buried high, high in the clouds, but it can't be so high that you failed to notice me accompanying you to every single property we viewed."

"You know what I mean," Martin retorted. "You didn't seem very keen."

"I said yes to all of them."

"You said ' _Sure, fine, whatever you want. I'm sure the smell of cockroaches is just a pleasing aesthetic.'_ " Martin drawled, putting on a poor approximation of Douglas' voice that nonetheless tickled him. "That's not a yes. I couldn't even smell anything."

"Well then we just keep looking," Douglas remarked. "You've never been one to give up."

At this, Martin abandoned his desk and crossed the room to drop down beside Douglas. The cushions tipped under him but he sat up straight, chin tipped up and he pouted, and fixed Douglas with his utmost attempt at authority. It earned him a raised eyebrow, but no wry comment.

"Douglas, I know you're not telling me something. You've been doing that… th-that quiet thing that you do, you know-"

"Being quiet?"

"Yes, being quiet," Martin said as he leaned in close and held his head high. "Now, I didn't want to do this, b-but I am ordering you, as your captain, to tell me what's wrong with all the flats that we've been viewing."

A sharp retort pricked at the tip of Douglas' tongue, but he swallowed it. The flicker of indignation was forcibly stifled as he knew that Martin was the king of that particular round table and could take prissy indignation to a fiery pinnacle if challenged. Instead, he chose evasion, knowing that it would wind Martin up, but not enough to start an argument in the porta-cabin, whilst Carolyn was just next-door tutoring Arthur on another aspect of stewarding that he had improvised.

"You can't pull rank over matters of the home and hearth," Douglas said, blithely, biting back the urge to cut rather than prod as he stared into Martin's blue-eyed, flushed-cheeked face. "You told me quite clearly that I wasn't to call you Captain at home."

"I said in the bedroom!" Martin hissed in a stage-whisper, turning even more red than before. "Please, just tell me."

"Fine. I don't like them," Douglas admitted, heart clenching as he waited for the resignation to cloud Martin's expression. "I don't want to live in a flat. I want a house – a proper house, with a lovely exterior and a quaint little set of rooms and a garden that we can dig up and sit in and enjoy in the summer because frankly I think that it would be charming."

It came out a bit quick, but Douglas was sure that he had managed at least 43% nonchalance – enough to keep his pride airborne, at least.

Except, Martin didn't look upset, or shocked. He nose was scrunched and he was dragging his lip through his teeth and he looked for all the world as if he was deep in thought, staring at Douglas all the while.

Then he came back to himself with a small, almost shy smile; just a twitch at the corners of his lips that nonetheless lit up his face. It made something in Douglas' chest rise and warm.

"That's…th-that's actually quite sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"Oh, you are though, you sod," Martin muttered, shaking his head as he slouched against the sofa, tilting until he was resting against Douglas' side. Then he folded his arms and blinked up at the ceiling with a dreamy look on his face. "God, it's been ages since I had a garden."

Douglas hummed his acknowledgment, partly to make up for his lack of composure only moments before, and partly because he couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't gooey and ever so slightly needy.

"That sounds really nice actually." Martin was still musing to himself. He turned his head so that it rested on Douglas' shoulder and smiled up at him, face still scrunched in the way that it did when he thought that he was thinking too hard. "W-we should do that – g-get a proper house with a garden that is. You know what, we will. I-I'll start keeping an eye out."

Instead of answering, Douglas beamed as best as he could whilst feeling somewhat embarrassed, even though Martin had no idea that he had anything to feel embarrassed about, and tilted his head down. Martin took advantage of the motion and pecked his lips, then returned to his monologue, imagining problems and then discarding them as he constructed exactly the sort of white-picket house that Douglas had been imagining.


	6. Chapter 6

**Martin/Douglas AU**

"What do you mean the taxi isn't coming?"

Douglas pinned his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat over the jacket, jumper, and fleece that he was wearing to fend off the cold. As he did so, he stared out of the window at the thin layer of icy sludge that covered everything from his lawn to the shingles on the neighbour's house.

" _I don't know how much more explicit I can be,"_ Carolyn replied, as curt as ever. There was a brittle edge to her voice that promised a flight filled with coughs and sniffles and an Arthur that was no doubt filled with energy despite requiring bed-rest. " _The driver called me this morning and cancelled because of the snow."_

"Snow?" Douglas retorted. "It's not  _snowy_  – a mild sleet at most."

_"_ _It's enough to shut down the bus route."_

"Oh, I  _see_. So it's too dangerous for the buses and the taxi drivers, but good old jet pilots like myself are perfectly safe," Douglas drawled as he yanked the curtains shut. "It's not as if I have to steer a plane down a hundred metre ice-rink faster than any bus could travel – without, I might add, a co-pilot."

 _"_ _Yes, yes, it's a terrible tragedy. We've all been hit very hard,"_  Carolyn sighed. " _Look, Douglas. I don't care how you get here, just make sure that you are_ here _. If you're_ very _good, I might even consider letting you see the tip that Ms Goode is giving us for coming out in such abominable weather._ "

"Fine, I suppose," Douglas replied. "Give me an hour."

" _You only live twenty minutes away-"_

"And yet I require an hour," Douglas said. "Bye."

He hung up before Carolyn could say another word and buried his phone in his inner-most pocket, beneath layers and layers of fabric. Consigning himself to a miserable hike to the airfield, he crossed the room to his wardrobe and weighed up the benefits of a woolly hat against the relative ease of wearing his pilot's hat, purely for the sake of carrying less.

In the end, he went for the pilot's hat, even though it would leave his ears vulnerable to the chill. Then he stuffed his hands into the mittens that his oldest daughter had knitted him, even though they made him feel like a three-year-old, and headed out the door.

Fitton in the snow was, in a word, dull. There was a crisp bite in the air and a prickle on the wind that cut through his many layers, it seemed, out of sheer spite. What might once have been a winter wonderland had been stomped down in places and reduced to a grey soup, Douglas actually found himself being battered by the wind as it pummelled him, whistling in his ears.

As he cursed their latest client, Douglas noted that at least one person had been brave enough to face the weather. There was a van parked at the end of the street, back doors wide open with a chest of drawers leaning against the interior. He wished the poor soul well.

It wasn't until Douglas was at the other end of the street, long past the van, that the wind picked up, actually pushing him off course. With one tremendous gust, his hat was torn from his head and his shout was lost in the vicious howl that took it. He watched it twirl like a rabid bat for only a moment, fingers closing around harsh, empty air, before it was out of sight.

"Ow!"

Douglas whirled towards the source of the shout, already moving towards it as he chased his hat. He wasn't one to startle, but he did slow as he was met with the sight of a man whose face was as red as his hair, bundled in an envious amount of coats, arms flailing as he spluttered and clutched at the hat that appeared to have smacked him in the face.

On closer inspection, Douglas realised that the man must have been the owner of the van, the keys for which now lay in a damp spot in the snow.

"I'm ever so sorry," Douglas said in lieu of an introduction. "You appear to have inadvertently rescued my hat."

"Wh-what?" the man spluttered. He blinked as if seeing Douglas for the first time, then glanced down at the hat and jumped, gripping the rim more tightly. "O-oh, yes – sorry about that."

"No need to apologise," Douglas assured him. "I should be asking you how your face is holding up."

"M-my face?" the man replied, eyebrows rising as he shifted on his feet, looking Douglas up and down. "My face is fine, really. Nothing to worry about – i-it was just a bit of a shock, that's all."

"You're sure?" Douglas asked. "You made quite an  _ow_."

The man seemed to puff up with indignation, even as he shivered, and he turned the hat over his in his hands. In spite of the hurry he was in and the horrid cold, Douglas couldn't help the flicker of amusement that had his lips twitching.

"I-I'm fine,  _really_ ," the man said. He tipped up his chin. "I-it's nothing I can't handle."

"Oh, well, in that case." Douglas reached out a hand to take back the hat, but the man offered his own hand instead, so Douglas shook of the momentary mental hitch and shook his hand, plastering on a charming smile that didn't quite meet his mood so early in the morning. "Douglas Richardson."

"Martin Crieff, h-hello," the man replied, still gripping his hand. Then he seemed to realise his mistake and if possible, his cheeks grew even redder. "O-oh, sorry. You wanted your hat." As Douglas nodded, he thrust the item back into his grasp, pausing for only a moment, expression brightening in the split-second that he relinquished it. "Y-you're a pilot?"

Douglas took a moment to secure the hat on his head, taking great pleasure from the protection it provided from the wind.

"Yes."

"I-I only ask because  _I_ ' _m_  a pilot."

" _Really_?"

Douglas glanced between Martin Crieff and the van, which was still suffering from a severe case of having a chest of drawers poking out of its rear.

Martin side-stepped so that he was between Douglas and the van, hands lacing together.

"Y-yes, really. I-I  _am_  a pilot," he insisted.

There was an edge of pride, slightly caustic as if waiting for a challenge, which caught Douglas' already vulnerable attention. He was just uncomfortable and wrong-footed enough to be drawn in by the man's stammering, the faint guilt over maiming the man with his hat keeping him in place despite the risk of turning into an actual block of ice.

"I-I mean, I'm a man with a van, obviously, b-but I'm a pilot as well," Martin continued, growing more flushed with each syllable. "I-I've got a licence, and a job, s-so – that's why I brought it up, y-you know, a-as a conversation started, a-and I realise now that you're probably going somewhere important, b-but I-"

"Martin," Douglas interrupted, and Martin fell silent immediately. Douglas cleared his throat and buried his hands in his pockets, turning his back on the path that he was supposed to be heading down. "Am I right in thinking that I'm forgiven for hitting you in the face?"

Martin's eyes widened.

"Oh, y-yes, of course."

"Good. Thank you."

"I-it's really no problem," Martin said as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "R-really, I-I'm sorry for keeping you so long. I-it's just it's been a while since I've met a pilot I don't work with, a-and they're all washed-up and boring, a-and I just carried away, I suppose, s-sorry-"

"There's no need to be sorry," Douglas cut him off again, ducking his head ever so slightly so that Martin couldn't see his slight smirk, the only outward sign of the odd warmth that had flickered into life in his chest. "I  _am_  rather interesting, even if I say so myself."

"Sure," Martin snorted. He shook his head and moved as if to return to his van, but when he saw Douglas' involuntary step towards him, following without thought to continue the conversation, he stopped. "R-really… it didn't hurt that much. I'm sure you can make it up to me," he joked – then he seemed to realise that he was joking and raised his hands in hasty surrender. "N-not that you have to make it up to me."

As he pursed his lips, Douglas was forced to admit that he was charmed. Granted, the man was a mess, but he was already a more interesting way to pass the time than a plane full of flu-ridden steward and CEO.

"No, no, no, don't be like that," Douglas drawled. "It was clumsy of me. I'm sure there's something I can do." He looked again to the van, even as Martin stammered that he didn't need anything. "Do you need a hand with the chest of drawers?"

"No, really," Martin said, doing a marvellous job of blending gratitude with stubbornness as he blocked the path to the van. "That's nice of you, b-but I can handle it."

"It looks like a two man job to me."

"W-well it's not."

"Are you sure?" Douglas inquired, arching an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted to talk about flying."

"That's not what I said," Martin retorted. "I-I actually just said you were a pilot-"

"We  _could_  talk about flying," Douglas suggested. Martin paused and his eyes widened as his lips formed a small 'oh'. "One pilot to another."

"W-well, I suppose we could," Martin said, and the bashful sort of smile that he had worn at first returned, bolstered by a fraction more confidence. "B-but you don't have to help with the van. Y-you could just… y-you don't have to help. Really, I don't mind about that hat."

Douglas snorted, but moved past Martin to inspect the chest of drawers and the sorry state of the van.

"If you say so," he said. "You know, my boss is looking for another pilot. If you impress me, I might even offer to hand over a CV."

The hungry expression that flashed across Martin's face was enough to convince Douglas that this was most definitely worth turning up late to work. This was quickly followed by red-cheeked embarrassment and a barrage of bluster as Martin made a show of getting back to work, cementing the fond flickers that were lighting up in Douglas' chest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Platonic Martin and Douglas**

For once in his life, Martin felt like everything was at peace.

MJN had been a high. Meeting Theresa had been a high. Struggling to decide whether he should move to Switzerland and be with her, abandoning the three people that had effectively become his family and leaving them bankrupt, or sticking with MJN and losing out on the chance for love… that had been a low.

More than a low, it had wrought havoc.

However, if there was one thing that Martin Crieff was good at, it was hard work. So he turned down the offer from Swiss Air, stayed with MJN, and put as much effort as he could into maintaining a long-distance relationship. And somehow… it worked. For once in his life, everyone that he knew, his friends, his family, his girlfriend, all of them were reasonable and accepted the fact that he was pulled in more directions than he could count.

And now, Martin was buckling down and pulling all the strings together.

Theresa was a busy woman, running a small country and all, and that would always come first. Martin was a busy man, jetting around the world, and he was never going to give that up. It balanced out nicely. Sure, they didn't see each other every day, sometimes not for weeks, but when they  _were_  together, things were almost perfect.

So Martin proposed, and Theresa said yes, and it was as simple as that. Being happy had never been simpler. That he floundered and flustered didn't matter, because she was so down to earth and patient that somehow she managed to keep everything afloat, keep him calm, and keep him hopeful.

All that was left to do was make sure that the other most important part of his life wasn't floating away.

MJN would always be there, so would GERTI, if it was the last thing he ever did. Carolyn and Arthur were supportive whatever he did, and he loved them for it. The only person that still seemed to be drifting was Douglas.

Douglas, Martin's best friend even if he did want to strangle him every other Thursday, who had been oddly morose since well before Martin had even applied for a job at Swiss Air. Who had been so eager for Martin to go and be happy and had been thrilled to see him finally catch a break, at work and in his love life, and yet had fallen peculiarly silent in regards to his own life. He barely even showed off anymore. When he did something annoying, instead of boasting or hinting, he pretended nothing had happened.

Martin recalled a time so long ago, when he had refused to admit that he was the one who had ironed bacon into his shirt, even if it was an accident. The Douglas of a few months earlier would have poked and prodded until Martin had noticed.

It didn't take long to work out what was going on. Douglas was reaching retirement age, he was at risk of losing his job, the man that he spent almost every day with was ready to leave at any moment… Douglas was setting himself adrift before they could cut him loose.

Martin wasn't having that.

Early Monday morning, Martin stood on the steps of Douglas' house, waiting for him to open the door. When Douglas opened the door, it was with a raised eyebrow and a flicker of surprise that he was perhaps a tad too tired to hide. Martin noted that while he was in uniform, he was bereft of shoes or a jacket, with a cup of coffee in hand, and he looked like he planned on slouching about the house for hours yet.

"Martin," Douglas greeted him as he stepped aside to allow him entry. "Are you running the taxi service today? I wasn't informed."

"No, I-I'm not. You still have to drive yourself… o-or actually, as I'm here, it might be easier if I just drove you in...b-but that's not what I'm here for," Martin replied, taking a deep breath. He didn't want to survey the room, or get drawn into a conversation. He was on a mission and wouldn't be side-tracked…again. "I-I wanted to talk to you. It's important."

At this, Douglas nodded slowly and placed his coffee down, his movements transmitting concern in the soft, cautious way that they sometimes did.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

The last time Martin had been desperate to talk, he had been fretting over his brother's stupid moustache. In retrospect, this was far more important, but far less worrying.

"N-nothing's wrong, I just, I-I just…" Martin stammered as he gathered up his nerve. When he spoke, he couldn't quite stop the fizzle of light in his chest from simmering into a smile. "I'm getting married. I-I-I proposed, a-and Theresa said yes, a-and we're getting married."

There was a split second where Douglas' expression dropped – but the next he was beaming, and bridged the space between them to clap Martin on the back. It was the closest to a hug they had ever got, and Martin clumsily tried to prolong it, just for a moment, but wasn't quite successful as Douglas disengaged.

"That's wonderful, Martin. Congratulations!" Douglas said. The smile didn't fade but Martin swore that his eyes watered ever so slightly as for once, he actually seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying and start to ramble. "I knew you could do it," The warmth spread through him and Martin's own eyes burned. Almost as an afterthought, Douglas added. "I'm proud of you."

Martin nodded quickly and choked as he sniffed and composed himself. He dutifully ignored the fingers that pinched at the bridge of Douglas' nose and barrelled on before he could lose his nerve.

"I need you to be best man."

Douglas paused, glanced down at his hands, and then the slightly stiff swagger returned.

"Well, if you're sure you want-"

"N-no, I don't want you to be, I  _need_  you to be my best man," Martin corrected. He wished he had his hat to grasp and turn in his hands, but he had left it in the van. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have as Captain…just as Martin. "Y-you're my best friend, a-and I wouldn't be where I am today without you, e-even if that's just because you were so difficult that I had to get better… no, n-no, that's not it. You helped so much, a-and I… I just really need you to stick around, a-and to be a part of this – o-of the wedding, a-and of helping me along, just…j-just so that-"

"Of course," Douglas cut him off, raising a hand to silence him. Martin waited with bated breath as Douglas nodded solemnly and inhaled slowly, as if he was the one having trouble balancing all the happy with the need to bring everyone together. Perhaps he was simply overwhelmed, but Martin had never seen him overwhelmed, so didn't dare hope. "Of course I'll be your best man. Can't have Captain Mishap planning his own wedding… lord knows what would happen."

He trailed off as if he knew that it was weak.

Martin didn't care. He grinned and didn't wait for Douglas to get over his surprise before he pulled him into a proper hug – a manly, Captainly, perfectly wedding-jitters worthy hug. There were most definitely not tears in his eyes. Or sniffles in his nose.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Madnina

**~A Date~**

Martin had barely walked through the door before Arthur cornered him.

To be more precise, he had walked through the door, crossed the porta-cabin, and headed straight for the kettle. It was a quiet day at the airfield. Douglas was off striking up some deal with one of the grounds staff, Carolyn was on the phone with one of their snottier clients, and Arthur... well, Arthur, as he so often did, appeared as if from nowhere.

He had a shrewd look about him that never boded well, but, Martin had often observed, could bring with it a rare glimpse of insight. It was the look of an Arthur that wasn't trying so hard to please everyone, but was at ease and contemplating whatever was pertinent to the moment. Although distracted by the liquid that had sloshed over his hand, thankfully still just a dab of milk and sugar for Douglas to go with his own black coffee grains, Martin recognised that look.

He recalled fondly the day they had been stuck in Johannesburg in a worn-down baggage truck. Arthur had been as 'helpful' as ever, but without the pressure of his mother and Douglas to impress he had also been quiet and thoughtful, and had sent Martin's ego sky rocketing.

They made quite the team – understated, perhaps, but they got things done... eventually.

"Skip?"

"Yes, Arthur?" Martin replied as he dabbed his hand clean and placed the mugs safely on the counter. He turned to give Arthur his full attention, partly because it was the right thing to do as Captain, mostly because without a client on their doorstep, he was bored out of his mind.

Arthur stood before him, fiddling with his sleeves where they were pushed up to his elbows.

"It's nothing really," he said. "I just have a bit of a hypocritical question."

"A hypo – hypothetical, you mean?"

"Oh, yes, that one," Arthur amended with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's about dates."

"D-dates?" Martin repeated. A nervous smile played about his lips as heat rose to his cheeks and he fiddled with the kettle where it lay behind him. The worst thing was he  _wasn't_ nervous – it was his usual damned awkwardness making things even more awkward. "I-I'm not sure I'm the one you should be asking. Aren't you ah – aren't you normally a hit with those girls from the pony club?"

"Normally, yeah, but  _they_  ask  _me_ ," Arthur said. "I've never really had to do it the other way – which is nice, really."

"Hmm, yes... it must be," Martin agreed. His embarrassment waned quickly, and he managed a deep breath as he relaxed. "What about Douglas?"

"I could ask him, but I thought I'd ask you first seeing as how you'll probably know the answer," Arthur explained. He shrugged and shuffled his feet. "See, I want to ask this person on a date-"

"Does she have anything in common with you?"

"He's a he – but yeah, loads I reckon," Arthur replied brightly. "We wanted to be the same thing when we were little, and we get along great."

"Oh, well then... you should just go for it," Martin said. He fought off the urge to fiddle and folded his hands in front of him, giving the matter his full attention. In spite of himself, he couldn't help but inwardly preen at being the one that Arthur had come to; it was a sign of trust, and a sign that he was doing well as a senior officer, even if he wasn't entirely sure how to answer adequately. "Something low stakes though – don't push too hard, o-or too little. Push just the right amount – a-and be yourself."

"I don't know who else I'd be."

"Exactly," Martin continued. "Just be confident, a-and yourself – which already is  _very_  confident- and ask whoever he may be out for... I don't know... whatever it is you do on dates. I mean... are you sure that it's me you want to be asking?"

"Well, yeah," Arthur said. "It's you I want to ask on a date." Oblivious to the sudden drop in Martin's subconscious, or his inarticulate stammer, Arthur ploughed onwards. "I thought, 'cos it's you, you'd know how to ask you out on a date – because it's you. It makes sense really."

"R-really?" Martin stammered.

"Yep," Arthur replied. " 'Cos I thought about asking you out for coffee, but we drink coffee all the time and I thought maybe you wouldn't know what I was actually asking."

"N-no, I wouldn't have known..."

"See, so it was a good idea, asking you, really."

Unable to muster any kind of a response, Martin simply nodded, struck by a dizzy sort of confusion that brought a certain lightness to his chest. He wasn't only flattered – and he was  _very_  flattered, and stunned, and suddenly conscious of all the creases in his uniform and itching to smooth them down – he was suddenly feeling an excited kind of pull at the prospect of accepting.

"So, um... I'm confused – are you, um... a-are you asking me out on a date?"

"Well not yet – but I can be, if you like," Arthur replied, face lighting up with the idea. He wrung his hands together and rocked on his heels, as he always did when eager to do _something_ , whatever it was.

"I um... I'd like that," Martin said. He nodded to himself, then to Arthur, and a smile split his cheeks without him having to tell it to. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he reached behind him for a third mug, lifting it up for Arthur to see. Arthur grinned and nodded, not distracted for a second, and Martin was forced to steady himself. "Yes, Arthur," he said. "I'd like that very much – a date, that is."

"Brilliant," Arthur announced. He clapped his hands together, business-like and eerily reminiscent of his mother. He was already half way across the porta-cabin as he continued. "I'll come back when I've thought of something to do that isn't coffee."

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found this going to waste on my laptop, so here it is, sharpened up and fit for viewing. Enjoy : )

The last dregs of the night haven’t quite faded. The sky is still a dark enough shade of washed out purple that the tittering of birds in the neighbours’ trees hasn’t started yet. Any later in the morning and the sound would have risen up like strings in the advent of a symphony. Douglas is already awake though, sluggish and coughing to clear his throat of the final lumps of exhaustion, rubbing curled fists against the faint sting behind his eyes. Still, he is alert enough to waft through the flat and illuminate the kitchen with the first stirrings of the day.

He can no longer hear birdsong over the bubbling of the kettle at his elbow. He leans back against the counter, using the sharp edge as a deterrent against drifting off again.

A low rumbling emanates from the adjoined lounge. It is a joyous sound despite the roughness of it – in and out, mapping the course of his companion’s slumber. Douglas has to strain to hear it – the wind whistles through the cracks in the window frame, which he cannot close properly as the latch broke months before. Perhaps if he asks nicely, and promises to let his companion win their next word game, Martin will offer to fix that for him.

Douglas knows that Martin hates it when he’s reminded of how better suited he is to the fiddly manual tasks that _he_ can’t seem to figure out than the career of his dreams – not that he’s a _bad_ pilot. He’s never been _bad_. In fact, the longer he sticks to it, the better he gets. Douglas is also well aware of how much Martin preens when he thinks that he’s impressed him, or performed a task that he could never do himself.

They are both competitive. It matters more to Martin than it should. For Martin’s sake, Douglas had learned to step back and lose if the occasion requires it of him.

The rumbling from the lounge ceases abruptly, and the whistling returns just as the kettle clicks and a flawed silence falls. Martin’s awake now, and Douglas can’t help but smile at the ingrained sense of punctuality that seems to resonate throughout his being even when he tumbles into the cosy recesses of slumber.

The heat that ripples through his hands as he wraps his palms around the mug of coffee incites a lurching desire to simply forget that they have to work at an early hour. He longs instead to shuffle back to the sofa and flop down beside Martin, wrapping his arms around his torso while he feels the solidity of arms sling clumsily around his back. If he conveniently forgot to take him his coffee, a treat that Martin hadn’t yet stopped thanking him for, Martin might even remain in such an addled haze that the memory of a career slipped from his mind.

That isn’t an option, Douglas muses as he extends his arms and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, relishing the clack and click as he stretches out his shoulders, and then takes both mugs in hand. Martin loved his job more than anything else, with such a primly pedantic flare that Douglas couldn’t help but be swept along by his fervour, a smirk on his lips and the gentle impulse to roll his eyes always lingering near the back of his mind.

Upon entering the lounge, the whistling fades into nothingness, and the dim glow of the kitchen is replaced by the slim, sharp light of Martin’s phone as he peers through fogged eyes at the screen. He’s probably trying to decipher why he had been allowed to doze on the sofa while he pushes a hand through his coppery hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Content to let him greet him with a smile that soothes the freckles lines on his face more than any amount of lecturing about proper procedure in the workplace, Douglas slides a hand over Martin’s knee as Martin shifts his legs to allow him room. Martin slouches down against the cushions, placing his mug on the coffee table just a few feet away, and Douglas rests against him.

Despite all of their not-always-light-hearted bickering, the sort that had Martin’s cheeks flaring scarlet with indignation and Douglas’ tongue sharpening to a well-practiced point, this is Douglas’ favourite part of their relationship.

This is the part that as friends they had shied away from, indulging only when propriety waned under the pale clouds of exhaustion and boredom. In the first trickles of a relationship, where letting Martin doze on the sofa is one of Douglas’ subtle ways of ensuring that he is still there for breakfast, nothing is more pleasant than getting to rest his cheek against the stiff polyester of Martin’s shirt. He had pressed it specially for work the previous day. Morning is the only time of day in which Douglas’ mind is still filled with fluff, and his longing for affection is close to the surface.

All he had to do was wait for Martin to blink into complete awareness.

In half an hour, buoyed by caffeine, Martin will be hurrying him along, nattering in his ear about the importance of being on time and filling out his paperwork. For now there’s something beautiful about sharing his laziness with him and feeling him sit up beside him until their heads are mere inches from each other.

That will have to wait though. For now, Martin’s back has found the cushions and his arm is winding around his like a vine. His fingers wriggle to find purchase against his and Martin’s chin is tipped back as he strains to hear the clattering from outside. It is careless affection, tender but nowhere near distracting enough to keep Martin from being distracted by the sounds from outside.

The rest of the world is waking too.

Douglas glances up and out of the front window, which from this angle displays only the steadily paling expanse of sky and wisps of cloud. Martin notes with a certain familiarity the sounds that he doesn’t yet know, but will in time.

The juddering of an engine like a hacking cough intensifies, rising in pitch as it passes the window. Then, as it does every other morning, it cuts off, and the car that Douglas has seen pootling down the road at all hours of the night falls silent. He’s not the only one on the street that works odd hours.

Martin blinks at him, blue eyes misty with bewilderment, and he can only smirk and shrug his shoulders. Later in the day, after he has bothered him about it at regular intervals, he will probably invent some fictitious explanation, or better yet, turn it into a game.

Martin isn’t one for conversation in the mornings. He is bright eyed, but communicates mostly in grunts. He can be ready to fly a plane in ten minutes, but once Douglas accidently rolled him onto the floor in an attempt to rouse him from his log-like sleep. Douglas is sluggish before ten am, but he could talk for hours. He does talk, as they eat, and dress, and brush their teeth – to Martin’s annoyance – about the many things that could go wrong – or wonderfully right – during their upcoming ten-hour flight.

Whatever happens, it is sure to be exciting. It always is, in a way. However the best moments, in Douglas’ opinion, are the ones in which nothing happens, in the transitory minutes between sleep and waking.


	10. Horses Anticipating a Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by jay-eagle on tumblr. I loved this one.

**Thank you, thank you for this prompt – horses anticipating a storm. You didn’t name a character, so I’m gonna go with a Marlas pairing, just because. And the horses here are metaphorical, because I can’t imagine Martin anywhere near a horse without falling off.**

Restless anticipation wasn’t something that Douglas was used to – not since he was young. Nevertheless, standing in the airport out of uniform, waiting for the flight from Zurich to come in, it took all of his power not to fidget. His hands were tightly clenched in his pockets and he rocked on his heels.

For a moment, that morning, he had considered buying flowers – but that would have been too strange. He and Martin had known each other for years. They _knew_ that there was something between them – a bond built on trust and a sense of humour – and they didn’t need flowers to prove that. Flowers were a declaration. There was nothing to declare that they hadn’t already shared via sideways glances and long flights. Never out loud... not until a week ago, and then there had been nothing.

It was almost a relief that Arthur had caught wind of the few days that Martin was spending in England. By agreeing to meet Martin at the airport with Douglas, the lad had saved Douglas from the awkwardness that he had created. There was a storm coming, and only Arthur’s relentless sunshine could keep it at bay.

It had only been a simple video call – once a fortnight they spoke face to face, Fitton to Zurich, to make up for the other days of the week when they had to settle for texts and brief phone calls.

They had been saying goodbye. Martin had said that he was visiting – coming back for the first time.

“I can’t wait to see you,” he had said. He had meant everyone – all of OJS Air.

Douglas felt it more keenly.

“I _have_ missed you, Martin,” he had replied. Martin’s movements had stilled and his eyes were fixed on the screen, just below the camera. The fact that it was harder to look him dead in the eye made it easier for Douglas to loosen his tongue. “I really... truly have.”

A soft sort of smile had tugged at Martin’s lips as his cheeks grew steadily redder.

“Oh, w-well... I’ve missed you too.”

“I mean it, Martin. I’ve missed you so much that I...” Douglas trailed off as Martin’s eyes flitted up to the camera, and then down again. “Never mind. I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.”

With that, Douglas had cut the connection. Nothing had been admitted and yet he felt bare and vulnerable.

The feeling only grew when he saw Martin appear at the gate, dressed in a uniform far smarter than any Carolyn had supplied and dragging a suitcase behind him. While Arthur hurried over to meet him, pulling the man into a bone-crushing hug, Douglas hung back.

Once he was nearer, Martin caught Douglas’ eye. They shared quick greetings – Martin even pulled Douglas into a one armed embrace. Then they kept their distance, glancing at one another in the silences when Arthur paused for breath. Martin had that look about him – the one that meant he was holding something in, biting his lip and refraining from setting Douglas to rights.

A storm was coming, and Douglas could only play along until they were allowed a moment alone together.

The moment came after Martin had visited his mother and his siblings, during the impromptu celebration that Carolyn had graciously allowed in the porta-cabin. Douglas ducked outside for a breath of fresh air and a break from Herc’s singing, and Martin followed. For the first time in years, Douglas felt positively skittish.

They stood huddled together in the dark, illuminated only by the light from the porta-cabin window. With the cold pressing in, they lingered close enough that their arms pressed together. Every minute that passed, Douglas expected a clap of thunder as Martin let loose his disapproval – or his confusion. He had said nothing incriminating, and yet Douglas was sure that Martin, who knew all of his most fragile secrets, had seen through his nonchalance.

“Douglas... are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright,” Douglas replied. He watched Martin from the corner of his eye. “I’ve never been better. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. I-it’s just you seem...” Martin paused and pushed a hand through his hair. “You seemed upset, before – th-the last time we spoke. A-and I couldn’t work out why you might be upset – a-actually I could... a-and today...”

“You’re free to start again,” Douglas drawled.

This time, he turned to face Martin properly. It earned him a wobbly smile as Martin folded his arms and leant back against the porta-cabin. Martin nodded solemnly, and took a deep breath. Douglas braced himself.

“It’s been weird without you,” Martin said. “N-not just on the flight-deck. I-I miss seeing you most days, or... or being able to call you up and get help with a job, o-or try out new restaurants in foreign countries.”

“I’ll admit, Herc isn’t nearly as entertaining a companion as you,” Douglas agreed, holding his breath.

“A-and I, um... well, you know, I’ve missed you,” Martin continued. “I really, really have. Just the things that you say and... a-and sharing things with you. I miss having fun together. I mean, I know we have a laugh on the phone, but... but last time.”

“Martin, forget last time-”

“No, I won’t,” Martin insisted. “You seemed upset – a-and there was no need to, because... because I said I missed you too and I couldn’t wait to see you and that should have been a good thing.”

“It is. You’re here now. I’m glad,” Douglas replied, voice taut.

Martin nodded as if to himself.

“Me too.”

For a while, neither said anything. They were as close as they had once been in the flight-deck, and yet the space seemed further. It was Martin that broke the silence. He turned so that he too was facing Douglas, leaving a foot of air between them at most.

“You know, Douglas... before I left, it... i-it always felt like something was coming,” he said. “Like a storm brewing.”

“Hmm, very poetic.”

“No, shut up, Douglas,” Martin muttered, without any heat. “Like... like something was going to happen and then it... it just didn’t. Then I left, a-and it was the right thing to do, for me  - for my career.” Martin paused and Douglas nodded, agreeing. Martin flushed and ducked his head, then returned to look him in the eye. “B-but sometimes I feel like... like just because I left MJN and I left GERTI... that shouldn’t mean that I left _everything_. I-I mean, my career isn’t my _whole_ life.”

“It isn’t?”

“Do you have to interrupt me?”

“Martin, think about how long we’ve known each other and ask that again.”

Instead of speaking again, Martin scowled and shook his head. The smile never left his eyes though. It was a familiar sort of exasperation that set Douglas’ nerves at ease. Then Martin bridged the space between them and Douglas was pulled into a kiss. The kiss was hard and wet – Martin tripped slightly and Douglas found himself pressed against him with their arms around one another as he pressed back. And then Martin was gone – only inches away with his hands on Douglas’ cheeks, but showing no sign of returning just yet.

“Well...”

“Is that what you were so worried about?” Martin asked, brow furrowing as he stepped back.

Douglas wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he gave in and pulled Martin into another kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

The sun left Martin red raw. To Douglas’ amusement and frustration, Martin met the itch with a cheerful grin and the Dunkirk spirit that could only have come from years of coming out in a rash of freckles and peeling skin. Around the collar and on his arms, it was an attractive sight to see, sending Douglas’ heart skipping. His cheeks were less appealing in this particular shade of red, but Douglas was sympathetic enough to grimace.

It wasn’t until they returned to the hotel room that Douglas realised just how badly the sun had lashed his own flesh. Prickling with pain, he peeled off his shirt and tried to get comfortable on the edge of the bed, holding his arms out at odd angles to make sure the skin of his shoulders wasn’t stretched any more than it needed to be. It wasn’t until he felt the mattress dip that he stopped muttering under his breath.

Douglas hissed through his teeth at the first sting of after-sun on the back of his neck. Seconds later, Martin’s hands were cool and slick, rubbing circles on his shoulders. If he wasn’t mistaken, Martin was sniffing smugly behind him, knee pressing into the base of his spine as he shifted to get a better angle. The press of his hands remedied Douglas’ frustration for only a moment before he turned to try and catch a glimpse of Martin’s face.

“Anyone would think you _wanted_ this to happen,” Martin muttered, no longer hiding his amusement. “I-I did tell you-”

“If you’re about to tell me you _told me so_ , think again, Martin.”

“Alright, fine,” Martin conceded. He raised his hands in surrender and the coolness of the balm vanished. Douglas must not have imagined his whimper as Martin’s hand returned, stroking more gently. “Honestly though, there are easier ways to get my hands on you.”

“Laugh it up,” Douglas sighed.

“Believe me, I am.”

Douglas reached back to swat Martin’s leg and was rewarded with a quick kiss to the cheek, Martin’s collar catching on his burnt shoulder just long enough to stop him from turning and returning the gesture. The hands on his shoulders soothed down the length of his arms and up again, taking some of the sting out of the burning sensation and leaving a certain broiling _under_ his skin.

It was only when he heard Martin scoff again – sniggering to himself – that Douglas’ patience snapped. Growling low in his throat, he twisted and hooked an arm around Martin’s middle. Tipping backwards, he pulled Martin down on top of him and thanked every deity he could think of that they had booked a hotel with sheets soft enough not to scratch his still pink shoulders.


	12. Chapter 12

**Shappey Holidays**

When he was very young – too young to even know how young he was – holidays were the only thing he could really remember besides the walls of his house and the hedges in the garden. If anyone asked him how he spent his time, he would forget all of the unimportant details such as flashcards with the alphabet on and oddly flavoured yoghurts, and instead tell anyone who would listen about the beach. They spent a lot of time at the beach, Arthur thought – him, and his Mum, and his Dad. Mum would turn slowly brown in the sun and Dad – _with_ them again after being away so long, flying planes Mum said – would sit back with a book and let Arthur build sandy mounds over his ankles. Arthur ran in circles and into the sea when his parents were murmuring in low tones and not paying attention, and Mum would run up red-faced and scoop him up before he could go too deep.

When he was a little older, and Arthur knew to pay _careful_ attention to his holidays so that he could write about it in the Autumn term – at his teacher’s behest – he appreciated the beach more than before. It had always been brilliant, but now it was made of layers and textures – of sand crunching underfoot and the sun burning his skin and the salty tang of the water tickling his nose. Dad didn’t join them as often. When he did, he trailed behind them with his hands in his pockets as the three of them walked along the coast. It was only lately that Arthur had noticed the short, clipped way that his parents talked to one another. Once upon a time, he had thought that it was normal. Now he knew that Mum was never so quiet when it was the two of them, before and after school and on weekends alone. On the beach, it didn’t matter so much. Things were good, Dad could be convinced to bounce a ball between them, and Mum relaxed as the coolness of the sea licked at her toes.

Beaches in Britain became pure yellow sand on distant islands when Dad traded a job with an airline for his own jet. Arthur’s excitement at flying with just his Mum and Dad never faded – Mum played at being a stewardess and he thought it looked far more fun than the stressful job Dad had at the front, even if he _did_ wish that he could fly GERTI too. It brought her to life. The nice thing about islands and private villas was that if Dad went and did his thing somewhere, and Mum accompanied Arthur down to the water’s edge, nobody complained. It wasn’t as if they were abandoning each other. For a while Arthur convinced himself he was too old for sandcastles. Then Mum rolled her eyes and scoffed and Arthur listened to her explain why wet sand had better structural integrity and hoped that he remembered enough to impress his science teacher when the holidays were over.

When Arthur realised that Mum and Dad were no longer friends, he realised that there wouldn’t be any more beaches for a while – possibly ever. Sometimes Mum would take him up the coast on the weekend, but the rainy weather and the miserable donkeys didn’t make up for the irritable set of her features. They were brilliant, but they would have been more brilliant if Mum had seemed to notice them at all.

In truth, Arthur didn’t pay beaches much thought for years.

He didn’t think about it again until he caught Martin and Douglas kicking lines into the sand of a Hawaiian beach, dressed in shorts and t-shirts and sunglasses the likes of which he had never seen on them, arguing over the possible effects of sand in the landing mechanisms – ‘ _It would wear down the moving parts’ ‘Martin, we have literally landed in the Sahara desert. We drove her, bottom open, through an entirely different desert’ ‘But that was a different kind of sand.’._

It was the second Christmas in forty-eight hours and despite their separate plans, they had all come together. Arthur had wandered outside for no other reason than the sun was out and he was stuffed full of lunch. He didn’t speak as he joined the pilots. They glanced his way and offered smiles and a short wave each, but they were too tangled up in their affectionate bickering to cut their discussion short. If Arthur was right, they were outside for the same reason as him – there was something alluring about the sea and the sand that drew them in. Martin was already pink from the sun and Douglas’ hair was floofier than normal in the light breeze.

The picture wasn’t perfect until Mum arrived. She huffed and puffed as her feet sank in the sand, but she never stopped making noise – talking and sniggering to herself as she made fun of Douglas’ beach-wear. There was no silence. Arthur followed her when she wandered up to the water’s edge and wondered at the fact that he was big enough now to scoop her up if she looked like she might drown. He didn’t mention it though. He was sure that she wouldn’t appreciate the glimpse into the past. Instead he slipped an arm around her shoulders and asked her whether there were any more beaches on the wall-chart to look forward to.


	13. Chapter 13

** Planning **

This was the hardest conflict they had ever endured, Douglas thought. In all the years that they had been friends, and all the while that they had been romantically entangled, they had never been so close at each other’s throats – not when chasing bears or calling a mayday over something fickle and changeable. Douglas had assumed that he and Martin were on the same page when he proposed that they used their week of MJN-free time for a holiday. He had been wrong.

Douglas wanted to visit the places that he knew. In all of his years as a Captain, and then a First Officer, he had learnt the maps of the world with the finesse of a man who had walked their streets without need for guidance. He knew the most romantic views and the restaurants most likely to raise his partner’s spirits. He was a creature of habit – he had garnered a particular fondness for each and every glittering city and cosy little village.

Martin, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with any of the countries that they had flown to. That he hadn’t seen much more than the airfields didn’t seem to matter to him. If they had landed there, Martin didn’t want to go.

“We should go somewhere _new_ ,” he exclaimed as they paced circles around one another, going about their evening rituals with a practiced ease. “I-if all we’re going to do is spend time in the same places we work, we might as well set up camp in GERTI – and no, don’t suggest that.”

“The important thing is that we spend time _together_ ,” Douglas countered. He paused long enough to run a hand along Martin’s arm as he headed towards the bathroom, following him as far as the hall so that his voice could be heard. “Lights, music, beautiful fresh air-”

“Exactly, that’s what I mean,” Martin murmured around his toothbrush.

“ _Martin-_ ”

“Douglas!”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m _sure_ I fell in love with a man who loves aircraft more than he loves me,” Douglas drawled, leaning against the doorframe. Martin caught his eye in the mirror but his mouth was too full of foam to speak. Douglas took advantage and ploughed onwards. “Now, I’m not saying we pitch a tent on one of the runways that are still proudly displaying GERTI’s tyre tracks, but I _have_ spent quite a long time waiting to get a week alone with you – a long time in which I imagined some of the wonderful hidey holes I’ve discovered on my travels. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

“I don’t like mixing work with my private life,” Martin replied. “You know that.”

“You’re sleeping with your First Officer.”

“A-all the more reason to get away from it all,” Martin insisted. Towelling his hands dry, making a point of folding the towel over the rack above the bath, Martin turned back towards him, hands on his hips. “A-and I... there’s more to me than the job.”

“ _Is_ there?”

“Y-yes, there is,” Martin shot back, cheeks flushing. “I don’t want you thinking all I care about is...”

Martin’s expression fell as the fight left him. His shoulders sagged and he let out a long sigh. The sound of it hit Douglas deeper than the sight, and he dropped the stiffness from his stance. He closed the space between them and pulled Martin closer by the hem of his pyjama top, trailing his fingertips along the material.

“If it’s your priorities that you’re worried about, I _know_ where you stand. I _know_ that you care, Martin. We _can_ work and _play_ in the same locations without everything falling apart. Have a little faith,” Douglas said. He caught Martin’s sheepish frown and lowered his gaze to the dip of his throat to give him a moment’s privacy with his own thoughts. “If you’re worried that I’m going to make fun of you... I will. But I won’t be upset if, _say_... we were to revisit that charming little airport we were in last month, and you paid more attention to the planes than the beach.”

“Really?”

“We could watch the planes _from_ the beach,” Douglas suggested.

Douglas knew that he had won when he felt Martin sway against him. Strong fingers curled gently around the tender flesh of Douglas’ elbows as he linked their arms. When Douglas looked Martin in the face again, the corner of his lips were pinched, but he was smiling faintly and nodding.

“I-I suppose if you can find somewhere really... _really_ romantic, w-with decent restaurants and some long walks – maybe some tourist attractions as we’re normally stuck between the airports and the hotels-”

“Anything else, Sir?”

“Yes, alright, Douglas,” Martin sighed. His thumbs rubbed circles in Douglas’ arms and Douglas _felt_ the moment he gave in completely. “Alright. F-fine. B-but when we get stopped by every smuggling security officer and whoever else your friends with, don’t come crying to me about ruining the mood.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Douglas snorted. With that, he pressed a kiss to Martin’s lips and grimaced at the too sweet tang of Martin’s minty freshness. He stayed still long enough for Martin to take his cheeks in hand and kiss him more thoroughly, before ducking out of reach and out of the bathroom, heading back towards the bedroom. “I’ll have a look at the booking site shall I? Back to Cremona, or were we thinking an island holiday?”


	14. Chapter 14

** Packing **

Douglas decided he had had enough when he was slapped in the face by a flying sandal. He had been lying on the bed beside a bulging suitcase, listening to the soothing sounds of Classic FM and wondering why he had ever thought a holiday would be easy. They hadn’t even left yet and Martin had worked himself into a tizzy.

Having seen Martin’s flight-bag on a regular basis, Douglas wasn’t _wrong_ for having assumed that packing for a week away together would be efficient and neat. Martin kept his identification in one place, his clothes at the bottom, and his toiletries at the top so that he could take them out for the security officers at check-in... when he was on the job.

Douglas wasn’t that different. Over thirty years of daily international travel had instilled in him the need to pack tightly and quickly. The only time he had over-packed had been when he had taken his daughters on brief weekends in Europe.

But _Martin_... dear lord, Martin went mad. The bottom layer of their shared suitcase was perfectly arranged. The clothes were rolled into space saving bundles and their shower gels had been decanted into tiny plastic bottles that Martin had bought specially for the occasion. For an hour or so, Douglas had enjoyed the peace of packing as a couple. There was a touching uniformity to the way their things fitted together.

Then Martin had remembered something that Douglas hadn’t thought to need. Then another. Then another. Now, Martin was rushing about the house, reappearing only to fluster and flush red, muttering under his breath as he lobbed and tossed and positively flung accessories and spare shoes and first aid kits and things that they didn’t even use in their _real_ life into the case – no sense of order, no care, simply a growing mountain of things that Douglas argued against until the effort grew too exhausting.

“ _Martin_... what are you doing?” Douglas drawled as another tiny bottle hit his stomach. He spoke just in time to drag Martin to a halt in the doorway. “We were packed an hour ago – we were packed _three_ hours ago, and we’re not even leaving for another two days.”

He turned the bottle over in his hand and rolled his eyes at the golden font declaring SPF 50. Martin, pale and freckled as he was, would need it he supposed. In his determination to follow some hitherto unknown holiday guidebook, Martin would probably insist on applying Douglas’ sun-cream for him if he refused to do it himself – the thought wasn’t an unpleasant one.

“Well I’m sorry if I’m inconveniencing you, Douglas, but I thought it would be nice if we were _prepared_ ,” Martin replied. He seemed to pace back and forth whilst standing in one place, wearing a hole in a single spot on the floor. “U-unless you’d rather I stopped. I’ll be enjoying the mini-bar while you’re opening our suitcase to find that you haven’t packed any underwear.”

Douglas arched an eyebrow.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

Martin’s frown slipped into a smirk and then switched back so quickly that Douglas almost missed it. He shook his head and crossed the room to take the sun-cream from Douglas. His attempts to neaten the pile of miscellaneous items that he had thrown into their case did nothing to make the jumble look less disastrous.

“Perhaps we should leave _everything_ here and make the most of the room,” Douglas suggested, leaning closer and propping himself up on one elbow.

“I thought you wanted to see the sights,” Martin shot back.

“Damn,” Douglas smirked. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

When Martin straightened up, his cheeks were still red and his hands were still jittering in their desire to pack everything he owned, but he was smiling. He trailed his fingers down Douglas’ shoulder, along the curve of his arm. Then he pointed a stern finger at him and headed back towards the hall.

“I-if I find anything missing from that case, I won’t be happy,” he called over his shoulder.

With that in mind, Douglas hoisted himself upright and sifted as subtly as he could through the suitcase. There had to be _something_ that he could remove that would simultaneously go unnoticed, and be of some use to him in its absence.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**“I know we’ve never talked before but there is a friggin _huge_ spider in my apartment can you kill it for me” au.**

From this post (<http://tea-and-outer-space.tumblr.com/post/106460870203/aus-part-2>)

Despite what his mother had encouraged him to do, Martin hadn’t socialised much since he had moved into the block of flats on the edge of Fitton. His job as a Man with a Van had kept him too busy over the last few weeks for him to spare any time, although he had shared a few awkward smiles with other residents when collecting his post in the mornings. Any other time he had, he spent trudging down to the airfield – not  _Fitton_  airfield, but the one on the outskirts of the nearest large city, where he held a rubbish position in the flight-deck of a rubbish plane, loading and carrying parcels to rubbish clients.

He wasn’t doing anything too wrong though. There were other people moving in all the time, and none of them had made any effort to introduce themselves. In fact, the flat just across the hall had been emptied and moved into in the few weeks that he had lived there.

Martin had been tempted to knock on his neighbour’s door and ask if they needed a Man with a Van, but decided against it. Neighbours offered  _favours_ , they didn’t offer their services in return for payment. He had  _some_  pride.

It was a surprise, therefore, when on a sunny Sunday morning, Martin heard the light rap of knuckles on his front door. Martin wasn’t long out of bed, still dressed for lounging around in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, with a boiled kettle hanging from one hand. His curiosity was such that he didn’t put the kettle down, and wandered over to answer the door without a thought to how he looked.

He regretted it immediately when his eyes travelled up and down the length of a man who was older than him, but still handsome, showing off a fair amount of arm where his sleeves were rolled up above tidy jeans.

As if oblivious to Martin’s surprise, the man smiled a smile obviously meant to impress, brushed his floppy fringe away from his eyes – the only sign of nerves he displayed – and pressed his hands together.

“ _Hello_ , my name’s Douglas Richardson. I live across the hall.”

“Oh, um… hello…?”

“Hi.”

Martin remembered himself and hastily cleared his throat. He held out his hand to shake, only to thrust the kettle out across the threshold between his flat and the hall. Douglas glanced down at it, eyebrow arched, and Martin hurried to put the kettle down at his feet. This time, he offered an empty hand and Douglas shook it neatly.

“Martin Crieff, hi – sorry,” Martin stammered. “Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes… this, ah… this may seem a little forward,” Douglas replied. As smooth as his tone was, there was something strained in it, making it clear that he was picking his words very carefully. His nonchalance was almost convincing, but Martin noticed the door standing wide open on the other side of the hall, as if Douglas had vacated his flat with the intention of returning. “I’ve recently moved in – over there, you see – and I’m getting all my things in order – furniture, potted plants, grandmother’s heirlooms… you know the sort of thing.”

“Right… y-yes, I do…” Martin’s brow furrowed and he wondered whether he was supposed to do something. “D-did you want some help getting the furniture upstairs? I-I mean, I do that – moving things, I mean. I do a bit of Man with a Van… ing.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Douglas replied. He moved as if to lean against the doorframe, but seemed to think better of it. “Actually, I  _have_  seen you about with that van. Wasn’t sure whether you were a handyman or…

“Well I’m a pilot really.”

“Oh,  _really?_ ” Douglas drawled. His smile slid to one side of his lips and Martin couldn’t tell whether he was being charming or facetious. It was a good look, whichever it was. “What a small world. I’m the First Officer at a lovely little airline…well, I say  _lovely_ …”

“ _Really_?”

“Oh yes.”

“Wow, th-that’s… um… sorry, you came over here for something,” Martin said, catching himself before he could latch onto the surge of fascination that shot through him.

He was already imagining the man in a pilot’s uniform – only to remember that they were standing in the hall, him in his pyjamas, and there had been a point to all of this. It was too much to hope that by some stroke of luck a pilot had turned up on his doorstep in need of good conversation and possibly offering a job, or just an hour or so of his time. The way that Douglas was pursing his lips and rubbing his palms together was reminder enough that he wanted something, and it looked urgent.

“I did, yes,” Douglas replied solemnly. “Well, like I said. I saw that you’re a Man with a Van… I assumed you deal with all sorts of things on a daily basis – _unpleasant_  things.”

“O… kay…”

“It’s just… and forgive me if I’m overstepping here,” Douglas seemed to work himself up, taking a deep breath. “I know we’ve never talked before, but there is a  _spider_  – a  _huge_ spider – more of a  _tarantula_ really – wandering ‘round my kitchen. The little bugger crawled out of the slow cooker – haven’t used the thing in years, and, well…”

Douglas trailed off, watching Martin expectantly with big brown eyes and a placid smile still plastered on.

It took all of Martin’s power not to laugh.

“I um… you want me to get rid of a spider?” he asked, running a hand across the back of his neck.

“That’s the gist of it, yes.”

Still fighting a grin, certain that the other man wouldn’t appreciate it, Martin rocked on his heels – knocking the kettle flying. He snatched it up before too much spilled and hastily nodded, cheeks burning.

“S-sure – I’ll um, I’ll be over in a minute,” he said. “Let me just…”

He didn’t finished. Douglas nodded and he quickly slipped back inside his flat. As soon as he had thrown on something other than his sleepwear, Martin returned to the hall.

He found Douglas standing outside his own flat, leaning against the wall, arms folded, not looking at all embarrassed as he inspected his nails. Martin snorted under his breath as something warm and sweet shot through his chest as he took in the sight of a man who managed to be, simultaneously, a handsome sky-god  _and_  completely ridiculous. Perhaps it was his own imagination running away with him – and given that he had only known Douglas for all of five minutes, Martin was sure it was – but he was suddenly very grateful for this  _huge_  spider and the opportunity it had given him to get  _another_  five minutes.

“Do you have a glass or something?” Martin asked as Douglas led him inside his flat.

Just as he had promised, it was in the midst of being moved into, with tables and chairs littering the floor without a sense of reason while cabinets were fully stocked and arranged to within an inch of perfection.

“What for?” Douglas replied.

“To catch the spider.”

“I thought you were going to  _kill_  it.”

“ _No…_ no, I’ll put it on the window ledge.”

Douglas glanced over him as if appraising him in a new light, then shrugged and fetched Martin a glass. He moved with an edginess that came with sideways glances and an awareness of where every inch of carpet was. Martin followed more carelessly, not watching where he was stepping.

“I’m sure it was here…” Douglas murmured. “It can’t have gone far.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost the spider,” Martin snorted. The look Douglas shot him was so desperately serious – such a well contained mix of irritation and sheer terror that Martin ducked his head and tried not to laugh. “Oh, well… we’ll find it.”

The next half hour was spent turning circles in Douglas’ flat, watching the other man pretend to be cool and unconcerned as he nonetheless managed to pull off the most seamless round of ‘the floor is lava’ that Martin had seen since he was six. Douglas might have been quick with his tongue, but he was terrified of the eight-legged creature that was loose in his flat.

When Martin  _finally_  caught it, he held the glass aloft with a joyous exclamation.

“Aha!”

“What? Did you get it?” Douglas demanded from where he was balanced on the edge of his sofa under the guise of checking behind the cushions.

“Got him!”

Martin inspected the spider, and wasn’t surprised to see that it was barely bigger than a peanut. Its legs spanned a fair distance, but in truth it was nothing compared to the spiders he had seen whilst digging through old ladies’ cabinets. He said as much as he brought the glass up for Douglas to see, and watched the other man skitter –  _skitter_  – across the room.

“Yes, well, thank you, Martin,” Douglas said quickly. “If you could just…”

He motioned towards the open window.

It was only once Martin had ejected the spider and turned back to the other man that he remembered they didn’t really know each other, and that he would have to go back to his own flat and the rest of his morning. Douglas seemed to think the same, as he was already swaying towards the door, one hand in his pocket, the other on the frame.

“Thank you-”

“You said,” Martin interrupted. “It’s fine. I’ll just let you get back-”

“I suppose I owe you a drink now, don’t I?” Douglas remarked, as if commenting on the weather. His eyes travelled quickly over Martin’s face before landing somewhere just North of Martin’s shoulder. “Or coffee, actually, is better for me.”

“Only if you’d like,” Martin replied, barely daring to smile.

Douglas made no such effort.

“I would  _very_  much like.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Police Officers – as suggested by linguini17.**

**In a world where Martin’s greatest ambition is to become a Detective Inspector and Douglas turns his criminal inclinations towards crime fighting...**

As he marched along the high street, wishing he was taller so that the bustling crowds would just _get out of his way_ – and it wasn’t as if he wasn’t in _uniform_ , with his _hat_ – Martin gritted his teeth and made sure not to lose the trail. No matter how big his ambitions, he couldn’t let his current duties slip, even if his current duties included trudging through the streets at all hours of the day, handing out warnings to drunks, trouble-making teens, and buskers performing on the street without a license.

The sweet sound of piano – no, a keyboard, louder and sharper and buzzing ever so slightly – carried above the heads of the shoppers in the light of the early summer evening. Martin couldn’t name the tune, but he assumed it was something with a name that was harder to pronounce than the music was the play. He almost hoped that whoever was playing _had_ a busking license so that he could leave them alone.

The crowd parted as Martin located the source of the music, but _not_ , he was disappointed to realise, because of _him_. They had formed an audience around the small battery powered keyboard, and were gazing in awe at the man playing it. He was smartly dressed with a charming face, and his fingers danced over the keyboard in a... well, Martin was impressed. Or he would have been, if he hadn’t see the upturned hat propped on the end of the keyboard, filled to the brim with pound coins and some heftier notes.

The woman who Martin would have _assumed_ owned the keyboard – obviously homeless or _nearing_ homeless if her attire was any indication – was standing a short distance away, leaning against the building and watching the man with an adoring smile.

Pushing his hat down, even though it was secured underneath his chin, Martin marched through the crowd. The man kept playing, filling the air with pleasant melodies, even as the crowd huffed and ‘aw’ed and parted at the sight of his officer’s uniform. Martin caught his eye and raised an eyebrow, implying that he should stop playing.

The man did no such thing.

Flashing him a grin, the man kept playing.

“Evening, officer – Douglas Richardson, pleased to meet you.”

He gave the keys a little twinkle and Martin felt his cheeks flush. Indignation had him clenching his hands but the uniform was stiff enough that, in front of the crowd at least, he refused to be cowed, no matter how handsome the man was.

“Evening, sir. I’ll have to ask whether you have a license,” Martin said, professional as he could. Even when people were rude, it was important to remain polite, even though many officers didn’t or couldn’t.

“A license?” Douglas replied. He was still playing, not even looking at the keyboard. The crowd had mostly dispersed but every now and then he caught on of their eyes over Martin’s shoulder. “I’m afraid not. Not to worry though, I am _also_ a police officer. Just doing a favour for this lovely young woman here – bringing in the money. You know how it is.”

With that, he winked at Martin and turned his attention back to the keyboard.

Someone laughed behind his back, and Martin scowled. He glanced towards the woman who owned the keyboard, who was doing a good job of not making eye contact. She probably didn’t have a license either.

“Oh, a _police_ officer, is that right?” Martin drawled, playing along.

“Plain-clothes,” Douglas agreed with a curt nod.

“Of _course_ you are,” Martin scoffed. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to pack that away.”

Douglas _finally_ stopped playing, fingers still poised, and turned towards Martin. With one eyebrow arched, he lost his smile and adopted an expression that was unfamiliar, and yet Martin recognised the derision. It was the same he saw from everyone when their eyes travelled up and down his uniform – his life would be a thousand times better when he was a plain-clothes detective.

“I think not,” Douglas said.

“You don’t have a license to be making money out here.”

“And I told you, it’s alright. I’m an officer.”

“It is illegal to busk on public streets without a busking license,” Martin said clearly, hooking his hands behind his back. “If you could-”

“I’m well aware of the law,” Douglas smirked. “I’m sure we can bend it this one time-”

“Right, enough of the attitude,” Martin huffed. Reaching for his cuffs, he pressed in close to Douglas and pulled his arms away from the keyboard. To his surprise, the man didn’t put up a fight as he stumbled to his feet, although he did try to watch him over his shoulder. “I’m arresting you for impersonating an officer.”

“ _Impersonating_?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, don’t bother delivering the little speech,” Douglas sighed. He looked towards the homeless woman, who was edging nearer to her keyboard, and said, “Clear that away will you, Sally. Best not be here when PC Pedantic comes back.”

Martin ignored the tittering that erupted around him as he marched Douglas ahead of him, back towards the open street. Douglas was taller than him, but he went without too much of a fuss.

“Impersonating an officer, hmm?” Douglas drawled.

“It is _actually_ a crime,” Martin muttered.

“Did you not like my music?”

Douglas maintained a steady stream of remarks all the way to the station, stopping only once they were inside.

It was only when Martin went to file his report that he realised his mistake. To be more accurate, one of his superiors collared him and pointed out his mistake, chuckling even as he scolded him at the thought of Douglas Richardson sitting in the waiting room with his hands locked behind his back.

Martin’s cheeks were burning as he edged into the waiting room. Douglas was still sitting, humming under his breath, looking fairly unhappy but not kicking up a fuss. Mustering his courage, Martin straightened his back and his hat and strode into the room.

When Douglas didn’t look up immediately, Martin cleared his throat.

“Um... Ahem... Detective Inspector Richardson?”

“Hello again,” Douglas drawled, cocking his head to the side as he smirked up at him. “Fancy letting me go yet or are we pressing charges?”

“No, n-no... no charges,” Martin stammered. It took all of his power not to shuffle his feet. “I’m ah... I’m sorry about earlier. I-it’s not that you don’t look like an officer, i-it’s just that-”

“I’ve got a bit of a gob on me?” Douglas suggested. In the face of Martin’s panicked silence, he scoffed and shrugged. “It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.”

“Yes... again, _really_ sorry...”

Douglas scoffed again and shook his head. Then he rose to his feet and turned around, offering Martin his cuffed wrists.

Martin wished that his cheeks would stop burning as he came in close – close enough that he could slip the key into the cuffs. His nose was level with Douglas’ shoulder, which Douglas kept glancing over as if checking his progress. His fingers wiggled when Martin slipped the cuffs away from his hands.

“I-if it helps, I _did_ like the music,” Martin stammered.

“Oh, really?” Douglas replied. “That’s nice to hear.”

“I-I just didn’t think you were meant to be doing it-”

“And I was undermining you in front of the public. Yes, I understand,” Douglas sighed. Nodding solemnly, he turned back to Martin, without moving away. Then he smirked and shrugged, throwing up his hands. “I’m sure there’s _something_ you can do to make it up to me. I only transferred recently...”

“S-so you’d probably need showing around?” Martin concluded for him, not quite sure whether the anticipation inching up his throat was entirely appropriate given how embarrassed he was.

“I hope you mean the town and not the station,” Douglas replied.

“O-oh, yes - obviously!”

“Well then...” Douglas said. Martin could only nod as Douglas buried his hands in his pockets and took a step back, eyes darting down from Martin’s face to his uniform. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you then. Back to the crime fighting.”


	17. Chapter 17

**“I think I may have stolen your dog on accident sorry” au.**

**From this post:** **<http://tea-and-outer-space.tumblr.com/post/106460870203/aus-part-2>, and inspired by the many cats that have jumped into our car over the years.**

As Martin hefted the last cabinet into the back of his van, he stood back and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The weather in Fitton was always different from the rest of the UK at any given moment, but today it was far too sunny for Martin to believe that it was February. He slammed the van door and took a deep breath – and caught sight of his client’s neighbour, standing at his own gate, obviously watching Martin, a small dog yapping at his heels.

Martin was momentarily embarrassed as he glanced down at himself and saw his sweat-stained t-shirt... but the embarrassment faded when he realised that the man’s eyes were travelling the length of him, lingering somewhere near his arms. _Almost_ subconsciously, Martin flexed his arms – under the guise of checking the lock on the van’s door – and caught the man’s eye.

His cheeks burned as the man smirked and gave him another appreciative glare, going so far as to offer a little wave.

Martin grinned shyly and waved back. He made his way around the van and opened the driver’s seat door – then paused. He was about to call out, or to wander over and say hello – then the client trundled out from their house.

“Now, dearie, are you sure I can’t offer you a little something?” the old lady asked.

“No, no... I’m fine,” Martin replied. The man was still watching him. He offered his client a hasty smile. When she said _something_ , she didn’t mean a tip – she meant more of the homemade biscuits she had force fed him while he was collecting her furniture. “I’ll make sure your nephew gets everything, don’t you worry.”

“Alright, dearie.”

As the client returned to her house, Martin turned in search of her neighbour. To his disappointment, the man was no longer watching him. He was walking around his front garden, eyes narrowed as if he were searching for something. Cursing his luck, Martin shrugged and clambered into his van, doing what he did best and getting on with his job like a professional.

It wasn’t until he was halfway along the motorway on his way to Norwich that Martin heard it – the small grumble, so faint it was almost lost amidst the rumble of the engine. The van was so old that Martin didn’t think much of it. He leaned over, tapping the dial and waggling the clutch. He was about to forget about the noise when a tiny, fluffy head appeared in the passenger side foot well. It was followed by two paws and a frantically wagging tail.

Then the dog began to yap... and yap... and it didn’t stop until Martin left the motorway.

Once his lengthy panic was over, Martin weighed up his options. He could finish his job and be back in Fitton by the very _late_ evening, leaving the handsome man terrified for the fate of his beloved pet, or... he could turn the van around and return the dog, sacrificing a fair portion of his earnings when he arrived at his client’s nephew’s house in the middle of the night.

In the end, Martin’s mind was made up by the thought of the handsome man’s face if he arrived with the dog in the middle of the evening, as a kidnapper rather than an unlucky hero. It would be a talking point at least... he hoped.

It was well into the afternoon when Martin pulled up outside his client’s house. The neighbour was nowhere in sight. Mustering his courage, Martin picked up the dog – which was flailing about, frantic and _loud_ after hours shut inside the van, and it hadn’t taken well to the prospect of being strapped in – and somehow made his way to the front door without his nerve failing. He held his breath as he knocked the door.

For a moment, nobody appeared. Martin put the struggling dog down at his feet, glad that he had thought to close the front gate behind him.

The door swung open, and the handsome man appeared. From up close, his slightly greying hair looked softer and his eyes were more obviously large and brown on either side of his bewilderedly scrunched nose. Without the dog in his arms to smooth things over, Martin was abruptly lost for words. He stammered as he met the man’s gaze.

“I-I, um... I-I might have accidently stolen your dog...” he said. “Sorry...”

The man stared at him for a moment.

“My dog?” he said, as if he had never heard of such a thing. Then his eyes landed over Martin’s shoulder, on the yapping creature darting around his garden. “ _Oh_ – Snoopadoop!”

Martin couldn’t stifle his snort.

To his relief, the man was too busy hurrying to secure the dog before it escaped again to be offended, although he _did_ catch Martin’s eye on the way. He quickly fastened a leash around the dog’s collar and led it inside, pulling the door half-shut behind him.

“I-I think he jumped into the van when the door was open,” Martin explained, hovering because he wasn’t sure he had been dismissed yet. In truth, he wanted to prolong the conversation – he had given up the better part of today’s earnings for it. “Again – _really_ sorry about that. You must have missed him.”

“ _Her_ ,” the man corrected him with a weary smile. “And she’s not mine. I’m babysitting for a friend – well, _dog_ sitting I suppose. Thank you for bringing her back. I was just getting ready to endure Carolyn’s wrath. I thought the bloody animal had vanished off the face of the earth.” The man paused and his eyes travelled over Martin’s form again, less appraising this time. Straightening to his full height, casual in a way Martin could never hope to emulate, he cleared his throat. “I hope I haven’t taken you from something important?”

“No, no – w-well actually... _yes_ , a bit,” Martin replied, running a hand through his hair. “I’m happy to do it though – to help I mean.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah – happy to be of assistance,” Martin continued. Then his cheeks flushed again and he rocked on his heels. “A-although I was the one who... stole her.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a clever ploy to get my attention?”

Martin felt himself flush even deeper, but the charming smirk on the man’s face brought forth a flicker of confidence, like he was being challenged. He wasn’t one to back down, and he wasn’t the one who had been checking another man out from across an entire garden. He tried to shift his stance into something cool and casual, like the man in front of him, but ended up fidgeting and anxiously clearing his throat.

“Well, you know... I-I- d-did it work?”

“ _Perhaps_...”

“Right, w-well, I... I-I have to get back to work,” Martin said, gesturing over his shoulder towards the van. “B-but dinner? I could do dinner, if you fancied it?”

Instead of answering, the man grinned and his eyes wandered down Martin’s chest, and Martin was filled with the suspicion that he was considering devouring him. The man stuck out his hand and Martin accepted it gladly.

“Douglas Richardson.”

“M-Martin – Martin Crieff,” Martin replied. “So... dinner? Tomorrow night, maybe?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Thirty hours later, dressed far more smartly, Martin was sure that it was completely and utterly _his_ pleasure as he walked home at Douglas’ side. For once, as he talked about his rubbish job at a horrible little airline miles and miles away, he wasn’t met with boredom. Douglas nodded along, seeming genuinely interested and sympathetic, not interrupting until Martin felt that he had said too much and shut himself up with a gulp of wine.

“I’m not sure I mentioned this, Martin,” Douglas drawled, leaning towards him ever so slightly, lips quirked. “But you do realise that _I_ am a pilot?”

“Wh-what?”

“The owner of that dog you _stole_ is the CEO,” Douglas continued. “She goes through my co-pilots like spare socks. I’m sure we’re about ready for another lot of CVs to hit the desk... if you’re interested.”

Martin tried not to seem too interested. Because, as tempting as the offer was, his attention was devoted entirely to Douglas’ handsome face and his austere and yet cheerful disposition – he was well-mannered and yet occasionally rude, as if taking care not to let it slip, and fiercely intellectual with the sense of humour of a child. Douglas looked at him as if bewildered, and yet there was no denying the same hunger in his gaze that had been there that the day before.

At Douglas’ door, Douglas stopped and turned towards him. His hand met Martin’s arm and Martin was _ready_ – he was so ready – had been thinking about this since the day before. He may not have been the most social of men, but when he had a stroke of good luck he didn’t hold back – he grasped the bull by both horns. Martin leaned in as Douglas did the same – only to stammer when Douglas pulled back abruptly.

“Wh-what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Douglas replied quickly. His tone was smooth and yet for the first time he seemed almost nervous, his chuckle seeping into a smile just a second too long. “It’s just... I’d rather like to know you better, Martin, and I’m... well, I’m a bit of a romantic. I’m not one for _rushing_ things.”

Martin realised immediately what Douglas meant. Infuriatingly, he blushed.

“I-if it helps, I’m not a romantic at _all_.”

Douglas laughed out loud and shook his head. Then he bridged the space between them and pulled Martin into a kiss. Martin prolonged the heat of it with his hands on Douglas’ shoulders, inwardly leaping for joy.

“W-would you mind if I asked you out again?” Martin asked when he pulled away.

“Well, I don’t have any beloved pets for you to steal, so I suppose you’ll have to,” Douglas replied. His smile hadn’t faded. “Same time next week?”


	18. Chapter 18

**“You sit behind me and poke me every time i fall asleep during 9am lectures thank you can i buy you a coffee?” au**

**From this post:** **<http://levhaibas.tumblr.com/post/101617073705/some-au-ideas-that-have-been-floating-around-my> **

Douglas hated lectures. He especially hated lectures that took place at Nine AM in the morning. There was nothing worse than sitting and listening to someone talk and _talk_ and _talk_ for hours on end. He had never been one for taking notes, or answering questions on cue. All he could think about most weeks was the bacon sandwich he _could_ have been eating if he hadn’t had to leave the flat in such a hurry.

The one bright spot was that he sat right at the back, so far back that the lecturer could never be bothered to call up to him, as he wouldn’t be able to make himself heard. The seat in front of him – right on the end of the row – was always taken up by the same young man, with ginger hair and freckles across his neck and the back of his arms. Everyone else moved around to wherever was free, but Martin Crieff was always, _without fail_ , late by one minute – some sort of early morning shift, he told the lecturer. There was always only _one_ seat left, and Douglas made sure to be right behind him.

At first Douglas had just thought that Martin was quite handsome. Then Martin had made a point of sticking his hand up every lecture – not to answer questions, but to correct something that lecturer had said. When they were encouraged to discuss amongst themselves, Martin either ignored everyone else and wrote notes against his knee, or shut down his conversational partner with a quick and _correct_ answer, and accept no substitutes.

Douglas thought it was rather funny... then charming... then he tried to engage Martin in conversation – when the lecturer offered the opportunity – and while Martin seemed pleased at the attention, he was as focused as ever on his notes and unbearably smug. He turned away from Douglas and was visibly _shocked_ when Douglas offered an alternative, equally correct answer. Cheeks flushed red, Martin turned his back on him again.

They weren’t exactly friends, but as far as Douglas was concerned Martin was one of those fellow students that he could consider a _peer_... an adorably irritable peer that he would like to know better.

This morning, Martin arrived in a bustle of movement and promptly fell asleep on the desk in front. Douglas kicked the back of his chair and Martin snorted, head snapping up. They didn’t share any words, but Martin picked up his pen and began taking notes.

It wasn’t until halfway through the lecture that Douglas realised Martin’s head had dropped again. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.

Rolling his eyes, Douglas scrunched up the ball of paper on which he had been doodling and tossed towards the back of Martin’s head. When that didn’t work, he threw a pen. It bounced off the back of Martin’s neck and he jerked away.

Rubbing his neck, Martin turned to glare over his shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” Douglas whispered.

Martin rolled his eyes and turned back towards the lecturer.

At the end of the lecture, Douglas swept his pens into his back and hurried to his feet. He stepped aside to let the other students into the aisle and then positioned himself exactly where Martin needed to stand in order to escape. As he waited, he plastered on his most charming smile and pushed a hand through his hair.

“Long night was it?”

“Long morning,” Martin muttered as he zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

He stepped into the aisle and Douglas made a point of ambling alongside him.

“I’m all ears if you need a shoulder to cry on – or snooze on, I suppose,” Douglas drawled, and then regretted it immediately.

He _knew_ Martin didn’t think he was funny – actually, he had _seen_ Martin snort on the few occasions he _had_ muttered something in response to the lecturer’s long speeches and twisting anecdotes, but Martin would never admit it.

Moments later, Martin was gone, rushing and shouldering his way through the crowd so that he could leave the lecture theatre. Douglas sighed and trailed behind. He had nowhere else to be – it was a waste to get up so early for such an empty day. Nodding in return to every greeting he received, from every third person, Douglas made his way to the front of the lecture theatre and out into the car park.

He was surprised to see Martin waiting by the door, looking sheepish as he held it open. He let it go when Douglas passed through, ignoring the groans of the students that it hit as it swung back.

“A-actually, Douglas, that was rude of me – I-I _am_ grateful. I-I’m sorry about that – you _did_ wake me up,” Martin said, blushing as he tugged at the strap of his bag. “I-it’s been a tough morning, you know. Haven’t had my coffee yet... so...”

“It’s quite alright,” Douglas replied. He tried not to feel the sting of rejection too deeply.

“W-well, I was thinking,” Martin said, still inexplicably walking alongside him. “I probably owe you one – a-a coffee I mean. For making sure I didn’t sleep through the lecture.”

Douglas stopped in his tracks. His eyes traced the lines of Martin’s face, and found nothing but sheepish, bashful sincerity. Other students were still pushing past them, and there wasn’t time or space to be loitering. Still, Douglas couldn’t ignore the flicker of excitement in his chest or the smile that tugged at his cheeks.

“I could go for a coffee,” he said.

“G-good,” Martin replied. He turned slightly and cocked his head towards the pavement. “Now? Just a coffee, that is.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Although Douglas had been trying to spend time with Martin for months, he found himself sometimes lost for threads of conversation as they wandered through the campus, and eventually found coffee that didn’t make Martin wince when he looked at the price. Douglas was never one to shy away from talking, and Martin had trouble keeping his mouth shut even in the middle of staunch lectures, but both of them were being noticeably careful – they knew each other _just_ well enough that small-talk was pointless, but not well enough that either of them felt comfortable sharing more.

“I-it’s just for extra money,” Martin said, as he explained why he was so tired. Just the scent of coffee brought a brightness to his demeanour.

“It sounds fascinating,” Douglas replied, sipping his coffee and thinking that the _last_ thing he would ever be interested in doing was getting up at the crack of dawn just to earn a few extra pounds for lugging other people’s possessions around. “I say you _deserve_ a nap – someone else will have taken down notes.”

“I hope so,” Martin sighed. “I missed twenty minutes.”

They hovered near the coffee shop, blowing at the steam and sipping tentatively, for a while – Douglas deliberately prolonging the time, Martin too sleep-deprived to leave. To Douglas’ delight, Martin talked stutteringly and quickly, as if he was afraid of leaving a silence.

“S-so I figured if flight-school wouldn’t take me yet, I’d get a degree and try again later when I’m more qualified.”

“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. I’m planning on keeping my options open,” Douglas replied. “Whichever route I take, a conversion course seems the way to go.”

“You can’t just make up your mind _later-_ ”

“Why not?”

It wasn’t until the crowds began to thin and the other students were all in lectures that Martin showed any sign of needing to leave.

“I-I should get on-”

“Of course. Try not to work yourself too hard,” Douglas replied, jumping in while he still had the chance. He was standing closer to Martin than he had dared imagine he could, and wasn’t ready to let that go yet. “Do you fancy doing this again sometime?”

“Hmm?”

“Coffee – or dinner maybe,” Douglas suggested. “Not as an apology though - more of a date. If you fancy it?”

Douglas was thrilled when Martin smiled... then his good mood faded as that smile turned into a red-cheeked scoff, a shake of Martin’s head and an almost derisive laugh. Martin ran a hand past the back of his neck and scoffed again.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Why not?” Douglas asked. He wouldn’t normally be so abrupt, but something in Martin’s expression pricked at his pride.

“Well, you know...” Martin started. He waved a hand through the air as if that meant something, then frowned when Douglas did nothing but stare expectantly. “Y-you _know_ , Douglas, come on.”

“To be honest, Martin, this is the first conversation we’ve had outside of a lecture,” Douglas replied. “I’m not sure _what_ you mean.”

“I-I’m not going on a date with you,” Martin said, far more sternly.

At that, Douglas took a step back and buried his hands in his pockets. His good mood evaporated immediately and it took all of his power not to frown and pout. It was hard not to be thin-skinned when he was being so ruthlessly rejected. Martin didn’t seem sorry at all, and although he didn’t think the _world_ of himself, Douglas wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve such harsh treatment.

“Well... fine then,” he muttered. “No need to be so _careful_ with me,” he drawled. “If you’re not interested, all you need to do is say so.”

With that, Douglas turned to walk away. A hand caught his shoulder, and was gone by the time he whirled back around. He found Martin standing, cheeks still pink, running a hand through his hair as he shrugged awkwardly.

“I-it’s not that I’m not interested – i-it’s not. I’m not insulting you,” Martin stammered. “I-it’s just... _you_.”

“Yes, _me_ – you don’t want to go out with me. Fine. It’s not like you know me that well.”

“I-I _do_...”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Douglas shot back, planting his feet.

“Well, you know,” Martin said, shrugging again. “I’m sure you’re a _great_ date, _really_ – everyone says so-”

Douglas raised an eyebrow, interest piqued.

“Have you been asking people about me?”

“I-I don’t _have_ to,” Martin insisted, raising his hands into the air. He tossed his coffee cup into a nearby bin and seemed to struggle for words. There was nothing in his expression to suggest he was against insulting Douglas, as long as he found the correct way of doing so. “People just _tell_ me – that’s how many _dates_ you’ve been on. A-and great as you seem, Douglas... and as grateful as I am that you woke me up... I don’t fancy being one more person on a long list. I-if I’m going to skive off doing assignments, it’ll have to be for something a lot more worthwhile than a night out and a quick... quickie one night...”

“I didn’t propose a quickie,” Douglas replied dryly. “I asked for a date. If that date were to go well, I’d ask for another one. Because, _Martin_ , I clearly think more highly of you than you do of _me_.”

“I-I never said I didn’t _like_ you!”

“You never talk to me!”

“You always try to talk during _class_!” Martin shot back. “How you pass any of the tests is beyond me – I-I’ve never seen you take any notes!”

“So no date then?” Douglas asked, more to end the conversation than because he expected a result. He was ready to storm away. So much for trying.

Martin shuffled his feet and shrugged.

“W-well, I-I... do you really think highly of me?”

Douglas rolled his eyes. Instead of the clever retort that pricked at the tip of his tongue, what fell from his mouth was awkward and made him want to swallow it back.

“You’re not bad.”

Martin ducked his head and grinned to himself, and then frowned as nervousness took over.

“I-is it too late to change my mind?” he asked.

Douglas considered saying yes, just to annoy him. However, he considered the prospect of sitting behind Martin for the rest of term, knowing that he had turned down a perfect opportunity to prove him wrong. Giving in to temptation, Douglas sighed and did his best to appear nonchalant.

“No, no, the offer’s still open,” he drawled. “As long as you promise not to fall asleep.”


	19. Chapter 19

**“Someone in the dorms makes amazing cookies and you’re trying to figure it out and walk in on me baking at four in the morning” au**

**From this post:<http://levhaibas.tumblr.com/post/101617073705/some-au-ideas-that-have-been-floating-around-my>**

In the past two months, Martin had put on four pounds. It would have been infuriating if he wasn’t filling out his shirts more handsomely – actually it _was_ infuriating. Martin had been carefully managing his diet so that he didn’t spend too much money, and he had managed to maintain a healthy physique throughout. Now he was losing control and it was driving him mad... even if he _did_ appreciate the attention he was garnering.

Besides... his dorm mates might not care about health regulation, but _he_ did. It just wasn’t good hygiene practice to leave trays of baked goods out in the communal kitchen, with a note saying _‘Help yourself’_ – there were no lists of ingredients, or use by dates – it was a nightmare! Anything could happen!

That didn’t stop Martin from munching his way through... all of it... when he came back late from lectures or his part-time job.

But damn... the cookies were _delicious_. So were the cakes, and the pastries, and all of it.

Martin had no idea who was making them. He had asked Arthur Shappey, who seemed to know everything that was going on with everyone but only shared the things that were absolute secrets – by _accident_ , of course – but Arthur didn’t know. He had a mental list of everyone in the dorms that could bake, but that wasn’t helpful. Martin also turned down his offer to bake something himself. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

When Martin turned to the next best person, he received even less of an answer.

“It’s a mystery, Martin, an absolute mystery,” Douglas drawled.

He was lounging in the common area, books open on the desk but completely untouched, feet up on the edge of the chair that Martin had commandeered. Martin felt no guilt in disturbing him. Douglas tackled university with a careless sort of abandon – no nerves, no panic, and very little effort and yet he still managed to do well. He _had_ stopped spending nights out in bars and bringing people back for the night and the night only, but Martin suspected – _hoped_ – that that had less to do with upcoming exams and more to do with the fleeting glances they shared when they were alone in the common area, sharing a desk and brushing hands even as they sniped at each other for being too loud or too pedantic.

“But is has to be _someone_ ,” Martin insisted.

“Obviously it has to be _someone_ ,” Douglas agreed.

“Why are they doing it?” Martin muttered. “Are they trying to fatten us up? Why give things away for free?”

“Maybe they’re bored,” Douglas suggested. “Or maybe they don’t want to eat a whole batch of cookies themselves.”

“Then why bother making them!”

Martin stormed away and spent the rest of the day underlining things in red to take his mind off the problem. Around midnight, he looked up to realise the sky had gone dark. His stomach was wired to his brain nowadays, aching for something sweet. It was a terrible habit, and he hated whoever was baking for ingraining this _hunger_ into him.

He ignored the craving for sugar until nearly Four AM. Then, knowing that he was going to suffer during his morning lectures, Martin dragged himself out of bed and into the communal kitchen.

Martin took care to tread softly, just in case. A soft humming confirmed his suspicions, and he hurried to catch whoever had been fattening him up for the past two months.

He wasn’t quite prepared for the sight of Douglas, apron at his front, floral oven gloves over his hands, freezing in the middle of the kitchen with wide eyes and a tray full of cookies held aloft in front of him. Martin staggered to a halt, brow furrowing, and Douglas continued to look uncharacteristically caught off guard.

“Martin!”

“Douglas... wh-what are you doing?” Martin asked as he closed the door behind him. He didn’t need an answer – although his mind was racing and he was sure that this was some kind of scheme. A convoluted scheme, sure, but a scheme nonetheless.

Douglas’ eyes darted towards the door as if he were considering escape. Then he feigned nonchalance.

“Baking, Martin.”

“I can see that,” Martin huffed. “I-it’s _four_ in the morning!”

“Is it really?” Douglas replied, taking a deep breath. “Fancy that...”

“You lied to me,” Martin said, suddenly remembering their earlier conversation. “You said you didn’t know who was baking all those cakes and things.”

“Did I say those exact words?” Douglas inquired. As he spoke, he placed the tray on the counter and began waving a tea towel over the top of them, cooling them manually. “I don’t remember telling a lie, per se.”

Reluctantly, Martin conceded that he _hadn’t_. Nevertheless, he marched to Douglas’ side and glared down at the cookies as if they had done him a personal wrong.

“Why on _earth_ do you keep leaving them out for us?” Martin demanded. “Did you know I was taking them? What have you got planned?”

“I haven’t got anything planned,” Douglas sighed. Up close, the bags under his eyes were darker and there was a sluggishness in his weary movements as he pushed the hot tray to the back of the counter and turned, propping himself up on his elbows. “Although I’m flattered to hear that you’ve enjoyed them. Really, I put a lot of effort into these.”

“Yes, but _why_?”

“Why is it important?”

“B-because it doesn’t make sense!”

Again, Douglas sighed, and this time his eyes closed. As he pinched the bridge of his nose, Martin felt some of the fire in his chest die down. Instead of hurrying Douglas, he reached for a cookie – the tips of his fingers stung but he didn’t care about the heat. They were a _delicious_ bake. It was almost enough to make him forget that he was waiting for an answer.

“I _like_ baking,” Douglas said, _eventually_.

“A-and I like _Maths_ , but I don’t sit around writing equations for people,” Martin snorted. “Why are you just _giving_ food away?”

“Because I don’t _want_ it,” Douglas huffed, and for the first time Martin noticed that he was growing agitated, speaking through his teeth as his shoulders tensed. He dropped his head to run his fingers through his hair and scowled. “I need... I just need something to keep me occupied. It keeps me calm.”

“Why do _you_ need to be calm?”

Douglas turned and glared down at Martin, eyebrow raised. It was only then that Martin realised that Douglas might be feeling the strain of upcoming exams as much as the rest of them. Except, instead of getting his head down and revising, he was baking a ridiculous amount of confectionary goods in the middle of the night.

With no idea what else to do, Martin shifted closer and slipped an arm around Douglas. Douglas keeled immediately towards him and – despite his superior height – managed to rest his head on Martin’s shoulder and wrap an arm around his middle. He was heavy and warm, and Martin staggered slightly as he supported his weight, but it was _nice_ – it was very tempting to sneak a kiss but Martin resisted.

After a minute of two of breathing against one another, Martin shifted so that he could extricate his arm and reach for another cookie. The movement jostled Douglas and the other man scoffed, chuckles rumbling through his chest against Martin’s.

“Distracting me, are you?” Douglas laughed. “I should have known.”

“You know, you could talk to me instead of... _baking_ ,” Martin said in lieu of a reply.

Douglas shook his head and shirked his oven gloves.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I’ve found some new recipes I want to try out.”


	20. Chapter 20

**“We both get lost at disneyworld and somehow stumble across each other and decide to be lost together” au**

**From this post:** **<http://levhaibas.tumblr.com/post/101617073705/some-au-ideas-that-have-been-floating-around-my>. Not a marlas drabble, but a kid!AU because the idea of those two as kids is adorable.**

This wasn’t the first time Douglas had been lost. At seven years old, he had developed a habit of wandering off the moment his hand wasn’t clutched in his father’s. His older brother was annoying and took up so much of their attention, arguing mostly, that Douglas’ own attention was easily snatched by colours, or sounds, or quick movement. He liked _knowing_ things, and the only way to know _new_ things was to go and find them.

This was, however, the most lost he had ever been in his life. In fact, Douglas was sure that Disneyland was the biggest place on Earth, with the most amount of people, and nobody in the history of humanity had ever been so lost before.

At first his eyes had burned and it had been hard to breathe. Then Douglas had imagined what his mother would do and sucked up his courage, walking with his chin turned up in case he saw his parents, or someone else who was willing to help. He wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, so he was hoping that Mickey Mouse would help him.

It was a good plan. All he had to do was keep walking.

Douglas didn’t find Mickey, but his feet grew tired by the time he reached the ride with the flying elephants. As he sat on the ground, pouting and sniffling, he saw another boy walking slowly around the ride. His hair was bright orange and his head was tipped up, and he didn’t stop staring open mouthed at the elephants as they whirled around and around above their heads. The boy was also alone.

Mustering his courage, Douglas approached him.

“Are you lost too?”

The boy turned and jumped in surprise.

“No, I’m...” He blinked and looked around. “Oh... I-I thought they were still here...”

Douglas nodded solemnly and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He looked a lot more frightened than he _felt_ , and he was shorter than him. It made him feel very grown up to take charge.

“Don’t worry,” Douglas said. “I’m lost too.”

“I only wanted to go up there,” the boy stammered. “Flying looks like fun.”

“Yeah, I guess... I’m looking for Mickey. He might know where to find your parents too.”

“No, you should look for Donald,” the boy argued, shaking his head. “He’s got a uniform. My mum says if you’re lost you should always look for someone in a uniform.”

“Donald’s not a policeman,” Douglas said.

“Still...”

Even though he wanted to argue, Douglas was still afraid. He didn’t want to wander off again, not if it meant he was alone again. Biting his lip, glancing over his shoulder just in case his parents appeared, he came to a decision. He stuck out his hand.

“My name’s Douglas.”

“I’m Martin,” the boy replied, puffing out his chest.

“Do you want to be lost together?” Douglas asked. “We can find Donald if you want.”

Martin thought about it for a moment, cheeks going red as he screwed up his nose. Then he nodded and came over all serious.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. Then he smiled and pointed up over their heads. “Can we watch the elephants a little more?”


	21. Chapter 21

**“We’re both stuck in this airport cause of a storm and i’m afraid of thunder” au.**

**From this post:** **<http://xaquaangelx.tumblr.com/post/101800154250/list-of-aus-that-arent-themed-at-all-were> \- combined with a request jay-eagle made. I haven’t included everything, but the thought of a devoted Douglas has been great inspiration.**

One thing that Martin loved – and would never admit that he loved – was how much of a romantic Douglas was. His pride grated against being showered in gifts and affection, but it was so _nice_ – after years of being alone, there was nothing quite like being the centre of someone’s attention. Someone like _Douglas_ had a lot of attention to spare, and the full weight of it was so hefty that Martin feared he might drown in it.

For a man who kept so much to himself, Douglas had a lot of heart to give away. His love of music, of art, of great poetic literature – all of it was poured into romance and Martin got the full force of it.

There were romantic walks through Fitton and the foreign cities that they visited, which made Martin’s feet ache, but the soppy look on Douglas’ face as he gushed all kinds of information and slipped his arm through Martin’s kept Martin from resisting. He enjoyed being taken to restaurants, even if Douglas insisted on paying almost all of the bill. It was actually interesting hearing facts that Martin was sure Douglas had learned purely for the purpose of impressing paramours.

There were home cooked meals. Martin tried to help, but he was always – _somehow_ – deterred by gentle hands on his arms guiding him away from the stove and kisses down his neck, and a weight over his keeping him on the sofa – giddied enough by the attention not to rise again until a steaming plate of food was placed in front of him.

Then there were all the little thing that Douglas did that _only_ Douglas could do – things that Martin could never match. Douglas could play piano without a moment’s practice. He could recite poetry when they were coming in to land. He could do wondrous things with his hands and he could always work out _exactly_ what Martin wanted when gifts were the call of the day. It was as if he was actually _magic_.

They only talked about it once.

They were in bed, Douglas propped up on the pillows while Martin lay back against his chest. Douglas’ hands smoothed up and down Martin’s arms and looking back, Martin couldn’t remember what they were talking about. All he remembered was that Douglas had said one sentence and he had felt so perfectly at ease that he had broached the subject.

“Let nobody say I don’t look after you,” Douglas murmured, lips near Martin’s ear.

“You know, I don’t _need_ looking after,” Martin replied, sighing as he began to regret the argument before it even started.

To his surprise, Douglas didn’t argue.

“I know you don’t,” Douglas said. “That’s just my way, Martin. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“No... n-no... I don’t want you to stop,” Martin said, tipping his head back so that he could see Douglas’ face. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“I don’t.”

And that was that.

That didn’t stop Martin from wishing that he could do as much for Douglas sometimes.

The opportunity arose on a stormy summer evening in a very hot country, where the weather had turned the sky dark and churned it into a furious ruckus. Flashes of light tore across the sky and thunder roared like a landslide all around them. GERTI was grounded until the storm passed. Carolyn and Arthur were elsewhere, and Douglas was sitting in the pilots’ lounge, waiting for Martin to return with coffee.

Or... he had been when Martin had gone to find coffee. When he returned, Douglas was sitting with his back to the window, magazine open on his lap. He wasn’t reading. Rather, he was staring down at his knees, hand clenched over the arm of his chair. Martin smiled fondly and shook his head, but decided not to gloat across the length of the whole room – Douglas wouldn’t appreciate it if the other pilots heard.

Douglas was very nearly fearless. If asked, he would say _completely_ fearless. Martin, however, had seen time and time again how eagerly Douglas avoided flying anywhere _near_ thunderstorms. He was perfectly prepared to fly _through_ them as long as they weren’t too severe to upset the CAA, but _Douglas_... he hated them.

Even though he shouldn’t have been, Martin was in a good mood. For once, it was _his_ turn to be the better partner. He sat beside Douglas and placed the coffee in his hand, put his own down on the floor beside his foot, and put an arm around Douglas’ shoulders. Douglas slid down in his seat so that Martin could do so without straining himself.

“Want to talk about it?” Martin asked, forcing the smile from his face.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Are you sure?” Martin pushed. With his thumb, he pressed firm circles into Douglas’ far shoulder and took some joy from the way Douglas sighed and leaned against him, groaning ever so slightly. “There’s no shame in it, you know. It’s completely normal to have a phobia –especially-”

“Think about how far you want to take this sentence, Martin,” Douglas muttered, and he stubbornly folded his arms and dropped his chin to his chest.

Another flash of light filled the lounge and Douglas stiffened. Thunder rumbled in the air around them, drowning out Martin’s thoughts.

“This is hateful,” Douglas said.

“It’s not that bad,” Martin replied, but he squeezed a little tighter and buried his grin in Douglas’ hair.

Douglas didn’t respond.

Thinking about what Douglas would do if their positions were reversed, Martin relished the opportunity to pamper him. However, Martin didn’t have the money to pop into the duty free and buy Douglas all manner of expensive presents, nor did he currently have access to a restaurant, and he wasn’t capable of reciting poetry. He could sing, but he didn’t think Douglas would appreciate the earworm that he had picked up from the radio in his van – it wasn’t all that romantic.

There was _one_ thing though.

Martin shifted, letting his arm slip from Douglas’ shoulder. From his new position, he could press his lips to Douglas’ cheek, then lower, inhaling deeply. He didn’t want to do so much that the other pilots noticed – he was a _professional_ after all – just enough to catch Douglas’ attention and draw him away from the thunder. Once Douglas was distracted, he could stand back and let Douglas’ inspiration run away with him. As Douglas hummed in response to his attentions, Martin traced his palm past his knee and up.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Martin murmured, leaning closer.

“I _have_...”

“Then you know all the quietest places,” Martin continued. “To take your mind off things.”

Douglas was on his feet in seconds, fingers wound around Martin’s as he pulled him up in his wake. He stayed close, brown eyes nearly black with anticipation and the excitement of getting through the lounge without appearing too eager, and of getting through the airport without Arthur or Carolyn catching them. Martin barely noticed the next flash of lightning as Douglas led the way, already rambling something romantic and a bit risqué just loud enough for him to hear.

To his relief, it was obvious that Douglas was too busy coming up with ideas to notice the rumble of thunder.


	22. Chapter 22

“ **How the hell do i keep managing to get you as my cab driver” au – AND spies! As suggested by imayjustbesherlockholmes. This AU only really makes sense with the spies, so thank you so much for suggesting it.**

**Original AU from this post:<http://xaquaangelx.tumblr.com/post/101800154250/list-of-aus-that-arent-themed-at-all-were>**

**(I don’t know what this ended up as by the way. I just hope you enjoy it.)**

Douglas was a man with a varied and expansive skill-set. It made him perfectly suited for a career as a spy. In all his years he had never been caught. Nobody had ever suspected at thing. He was so good at secrets that three marriages had broken down due to his inability to open up. Still, he was good at his job and that was enough for him. A flawless record meant more than most people would think.

His was a career that had never faltered – until now.

“How the hell do I keep managing to get _you_ as my cab driver?” demanded the man in the back seat of his rented cab.

His face was as red as his hair and his dark blue uniform was buttoned and ironed to within an inch of its life. The righteous indignation was real. The bewildered furrowing of his brow was real. The job at the little airline was real, Douglas knew – he had done his research. However, the innocence on Martin Crieff’s face was feigned. Douglas had scoped out the entire airfield and _this_ man – the Captain­ against all odds – was definitely the freelance spy responsible for trading details of British airports with foreign nationals.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Douglas replied smoothly, tapping the rim of his flat cap. He rapped his fingers atop the steering wheel and made the most of his affected accent, glancing at Martin in the rear-view mirror instead of turning and allowing him a clear view of his face. “The gov’nor said you wanted a cab, I came.”

“N-no, you didn’t – you’re the same cabbie I had yesterday,” Martin insisted, shaking his head. He didn’t leave the car though. If Douglas had learned anything in his observations, it was that Captain Crieff was stubborn – it was quite an attractive trait, and must have helped him trade so many secrets. “A-and the day before,” Martin continued. “And before that, and before – you’ve been my cabbie for over a month now –a-and I haven’t even been calling you to the house. Last week I stuck out my arm in the middle of Fitton high street and it was _you_ again!”

“Sorry, sir-”

“Don’t _sir_ me!” Martin snapped, bristling and tugging on his striped sleeves. “I’m _right_ – I’m not an idiot. A-are you stalking me?”

“Just driving you to work, sir,” Douglas sighed.

With that he flicked the switch that would lock the doors, and pulled out of Parkside Terrace. Martin spluttered behind him, but he couldn’t do anything through the partition. To Douglas’ surprise, although he saw Martin struggle to try and open the doors, he didn’t descend into complete panic as he had seen him do over miniscule mistakes in the flight-plan or the way the steward packed the hold.

After a while, Martin simply glared into the rear-view mirror. It was a little unnerving actually. Douglas considered starting a conversation, but the moment he did Martin sat forwards ever so slightly, as if waiting for an opening to shower him in verbal abuse.

When Douglas pulled up to a sheltered corner of Fitton’s bypass and opened the passenger door, Martin refused to leave the cab. Again, Douglas found himself admiring the man’s nerve, even if he was making his life a lot more difficult. The job wasn’t meant to be a violent one – unless Martin refused to answer his questions. It would be so much _easier_ if he played along and Douglas could arrest him for giving away potentially dangerous information about the layout of various airports.

“Get out,” he instructed.

Martin’s response was simple and stubborn.

“No.”

“Martin Crieff, get out of the cab.”

“So you know my name then,” Martin seethed, pouting as he looked up at Douglas. “You _have_ been stalking me. I haven’t got any money if that’s what you’re after.”

“I’m not after your money,” Douglas sighed. He leaned against the side of the cab, resisting the urge to drop his head against the top. “If you would step out of the car, please.”

Martin glared up at him.

“I have some questions to ask regarding the sale of information pertaining to the layout of international airports,” Douglas said, lowering his tone. “I have reason to believe that _you_ have been selling significant information to potential smugglers and/or terrorists. As a high-ranking officer-”

Martin snorted and turned his eyes towards the cab’s foot well.

“I _know_ MJN’s not high-ranking in _anyone’s_ book,” Douglas continued. “However, _you_ , Captain, have an above average knowledge of airfields, aircraft, and proper procedure – the next best person would be an ATC officer, however I’ve looked into Karl and he’s not selling anything to anyone. Unlike him _you_ have the ability to travel. You’ve landed in some pretty dodgy airfields recently-”

“That’s because Carolyn’s cheap and if I landed in any _decent_ airfields she’d have my head,” Martin replied curtly. Petulance pulled his expression taut and Douglas couldn’t help but be impressed – infuriated and yet still impressed – and how much spite Martin could force into his tone. “Was there anything else?”

“A lot has slipped under the noses of border control lately-”

“What makes you think it was _me?_ ”

“You came into contact with all of the culprits shortly before they made contact with workers that had since been removed from their positions-”

“So did Arthur and Carolyn,” Martin snapped. Finally he turned towards Douglas and pulled himself from the cab. He wasn’t as tall as him, but his chest heaved and he glared, and his irritation was hot in the air around him. “I-I am a _professional_ – I know CAA guidelines _word for word_ – I’m not stupid enough to give away important information. For crying out loud – maybe it was _Arthur_ – he chats with everyone he meets – talks about everything...”

Martin trailed off as he realised what he had said. Then he gave a nervous laugh and met Douglas’ eye.

“I-it wouldn’t be Arthur though,” he said.

“Of course not, he’s a clot,” Douglas sighed. “I _am_ good at my job too.”

But he was thinking... and _thinking_... and now that he thought about it, the slip-ups in border security hadn’t been _that_ serious. They had been little things. Like a smuggler knowing that someone would be taking a break at a certain time of day. Or knowing that the disused fuselage was the perfect space to keep their stock hidden. Or knowing just who to convince to turn a blind eye to the items being smuggled into the country.

Now that he thought about it, Douglas realised that he had dismissed MJN’s steward completely and focused entirely upon Martin – because _nobody_ could be as pedantic and rule-abiding as Martin without hiding _something_.

Closing his eyes, groaning aloud, Douglas dropped his head into his hands. Nobody was selling secrets... Arthur Shappey just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

It wasn’t until he felt a hand on his arm that Douglas opened his eyes. He saw Martin hastily snatching his hand back and stepping backwards until his back met the side of the cab. He still looked indignant, but slightly more sheepish than before.

“So, um... y-you’re not the murdering kind of spy, are you?”

“No, I’m not the murdering kind,” Douglas replied dryly.

“Oh good...” Martin nodded slowly and clapped his hands together. “Well...”

“ _Well_...”

“Can I go to work now?”

Douglas looked Martin in the eye. Then he scoffed and shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

“N-not that this hasn’t been great,” Martin said, raising his hands in a mockery of surrender. “I-it’s just Carolyn is far more terrifying than you, a-and I should... you know... get going. Which you’ll know because you’ve been watching me.”

Douglas shrugged and motioned back towards the car.

“I suppose one of us should have a job to go back to,” he sighed. “I definitely won’t when my boss hears about this.”

Neither of them spoke until the airfield was in sight.

“You know, if you _do_ get sacked,” Martin said. “We need a First Officer. I-I’m assuming they teach spies how to fly?”

“I was in flight-school long before I joined up,” Douglas replied, frowning as he watched Martin’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t look afraid, or as if he were expecting Douglas to leap on the job offer. But he was looking back with moderately friendly eyes, cheeks still pink. “That’s a very generous offer. Anyone would think you didn’t want to say goodbye.”

Martin rolled his eyes. He also smiled, just so.

“You can’t be any worse than some of the people Carolyn’s hired – a-and I say that as someone who thought you were going to kill me half an hour ago.”

It was then that Douglas realised he really _did_ admire Martin Crieff, more up close than from afar.


	23. Chapter 23

**“I accidentally punched you in the face when I was trying to punch a different guy in the face I am so sorry” au – again, this one isn’t an AU per se, but a cute starting point.**

**From the post:** [ **http://tea-and-outer-space.tumblr.com/post/106460870203/aus-part-2** ](http://tea-and-outer-space.tumblr.com/post/106460870203/aus-part-2)

Martin Crieff was a fighter.

That was how he survived.

That was how he got through years of schooling hounded by people like Nathan Smiley tossing his briefcase into various hard to reach places. That was how he survived being rejected from flight-school, and failing his CPL seven times. That was how he kept his nerve when in the presence of people like Carolyn’s horrible great-nephew and Mr Birling. If he wasn’t a fighter, he wouldn’t have convinced Carolyn to hire him at all.

Douglas might think him a push-over for accepting a job for no pay – although the odd silence that had followed that particular truth was accompanied by an almost _appraising_ stare, as if Douglas was _impressed_. Martin didn’t dare hope, but he held onto the knowledge that a push-over would have accepted defeat and walked away.

The only problem was that Martin wasn’t a _good_ fighter.

He was short, his temper flared and faded in a matter of seconds, and – he didn’t _think_ he was shrill, but even _Arthur_ had imitated his panicked noises once or twice. Sometimes that meant he was beaten down easily.

Other times, however, it meant that he was so underestimated that nobody was expecting him to take a swing at them.

When asked later, Martin couldn’t say what had made him take a swing at the Captain of the shiny 747 that was parked in the hangar beside GERTI’s. Maybe he had been saying something about Arthur? Or about Douglas? Martin was sure it hadn’t been about _him_ , because he didn’t splutter and his cheeks didn’t burn. He just felt a flare of heat in his stomach and before he knew it his fist was clenched and he was flying forwards.

What Martin did know what that the pilot in question reacted just in time to dodge the punch.

Douglas, on the hand, was too busy stepping forwards to intervene to see Martin’s fist until it connected _hard_ with his nose.

In the flurry of confusion, Martin ended up with a hand pressed against Douglas’ back and another flitting from his shoulder to his arm to his face in an attempt to reverse time and cure the flow of blood and irritable cursing by sheer force of will alone.

“Shall I get some paper towels?” Arthur asked, hovering and wringing his hands together.

“You can all stop fussing!” Douglas growled from where he was clutching at his face.

“Y-yes, please, Arthur,” Martin sighed. _Now_ his cheeks were burning, with embarrassment rather than rage. “A-and then go and find your mother.”

Eventually, Martin got Douglas sitting down in the corner of a quiet pilots’ lounge. Arthur had outdone himself in bringing an entire box of paper towels before hurrying off to find Carolyn. Douglas’ anger had faded once most of the blood had been mopped away and he had prodded his nose enough to conclude that it wasn’t broken.

Martin wasn’t sure he believed him, but he supposed that Douglas wasn’t the sort to avoid a fuss under such circumstances. Feeling appropriately sorry, Martin bundled some ice from the drinks bucket into a paper towel and sat in the chair beside Douglas’, turning until his knee pressed against Douglas’ thigh.

“Here, let me have a look,” he instructed, brushing Douglas’ hands away from where he was _still_ prodding at the steadily darkening bruise on his face. “This should help.”

Although Douglas’ eyes didn’t leave Martin’s face, narrowed in suspicion and making something in Martin’s chest squirm, he didn’t do more than lean away when Martin pressed the cold compress to his face.

“Trying to finish me off are you?”

“I really _am_ sorry,” Martin sighed as he reached across to tip Douglas’ chin up with his free finger. “It’s not looking so bad anymore... a bit red, b-but I think that’s the cold more than anything else.”

“I _suppose_ I should forgive you.”

Martin shifted closer so that he wasn’t twisting as he dabbed the compress against Douglas’ cheek. The closeness rippled in the air between them and he couldn’t help a sheepish smile when he caught Douglas’ eye. The dampness of the melting ice through the paper went some way towards clearing the last of the blood from around his nose. As Douglas held himself still and pouted at the attention, Martin couldn’t help brushing his thumb past Douglas’ cheek under the guise of inspecting the damage.

At one point, he was sure he felt Douglas’ hand on his knee, but it was gone when he looked.

“I-I _am_ sorry,” Martin said after a while. The quite wasn’t uncomfortable, the proximity was _welcome_ , but he was beginning to feel more guilty the more at ease Douglas became with what must have been an aching nose. “I shouldn’t have tried to hit him.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Captain,” Douglas sighed. There was no mistaking his fingers, gentle but firm as they stroked down Martin’s wrist in an obvious gesture meant to soothe. “If I weren’t such a calm and beautiful soul I might have done the same.”

Martin snorted. Shaking his wrist to dispel the water that had dripped down from the compress, he placed the soggy paper aside and reached for another dry one to dab at Douglas’ face.

It was only when his fingers connected with Douglas’ that he realised Douglas was capable of doing it himself.

Douglas smiled though, and Martin felt that same pleasant twist in his chest. He could _feel_ his smile, warm in his cheeks, as his eyes travelled from Douglas’ own to his brown eyes. His hand was on Douglas’ knee and although he wasn’t aware of moving he was sure that the space between them was growing smaller. If he just tilted his head...

Then Martin cleared his throat and sat back, patting Douglas’ knee before retreating.

“Not long until take-off, is it?”

“You wrote the flight-plan, Captain,” Douglas replied, sighing as he heaved himself to his feet. As Martin watched, he twitched his nose and grimaced, but didn’t complain aloud. He was probably saving it for the flight-deck. Still, Douglas plastered on a smile and sauntered to Martin’s side. “If you _really_ want to make it up to me, you could let me have the landing.”

“I don’t think I hit you that hard,” Martin chuckled.

Although something in his chest panged in regret, Martin followed Douglas from the lounge, enjoying the camaraderie and the brush of their arms against one another.


	24. Chapter 24

**“We get the same train to work every morning and you always take the good seat so i glare at you until you let me sit there” au.**

**From this post:** **<http://levhaibas.tumblr.com/post/101617073705/some-au-ideas-that-have-been-floating-around-my> **

It had become something of a game – in Douglas’ mind, at least.

For the past few years, he had taken the same train to work at 7:45am. By some stroke of Richardson luck, he always slipped into the seat closest to the door, on the right-hand side so that he was protected from the draught by the baggage rack. It was comfortable, and out of the way, and when the other passengers stood bunched together he was nice and clear of their path of sweat, grumbling, and destruction.

His triumph was made even sweeter by the man who had _also_ taken the train to work at 7:45am every day for the past year. He was the only constant, with red hair, freckles, and a furiously stubborn pout.

Normally, Douglas would have ignored him. However, this man made a point of glaring at Douglas _every single journey_ , arms folded, feet planted where he was wedged against the baggage rack, as if he thought that Douglas might move. The man always _sprinted_ to get onto the train in time, rushing and getting in as early as Douglas did, but he never got the good seat.

There hadn’t been any introductions. They had never had a conversation. However, Douglas felt like he knew the man. They glared at one another often enough – Douglas smirking while the man scowled and went red in the face.

Today, the man stood closer than usual. This might have been because there were an unusual amount of students gathered around the barrage rack. Whatever it was, Douglas took some amusement from watching the man wobble around, one hand around the nearest metal bar, and glaring even harder than he had before.

Letting his smugness roll over him, Douglas pulled out his phone. His eyes were diverted for only a second before the train gave an almighty lurch – and the man landed with an ‘ _oomph’_ in Douglas’ lap.

As Douglas blinked in surprise, the man tried to scramble upright. He wobbled right back down again. The only thing Douglas could do to stop them both from falling to the floor was slip an arm around him.

“Hello...”

“Hi, um... hi...” the man replied, still trying valiantly to get to his feet by balancing a hand on Douglas’ shoulder. For once his expression held no apathy as he blushed and ran a hand through his hair, finally getting upright. “Sorry about that.”

“No worries,” Douglas replied. He stuck out a hand. “Douglas Richardson.”

“M-Martin Crieff.”

“Nice to meet you officially, Martin Crieff,” Douglas drawled. He didn’t let go of Martin’s hand, but ran his thumb over his knuckles. “After that, I think one of us owes the other a drink.”

Just like that, Martin’s glare was firmly back in place. This time, however, his lips twitched at the corners and he stood a little closer.


	25. Chapter 25

**“You’re in the hospital bed next to me and we fight over what to watch on the shared tv” au – this is one of the first I wanted to do but I’ve been putting it off because... I don’t know.**

**From this post:** **<http://levhaibas.tumblr.com/post/101617073705/some-au-ideas-that-have-been-floating-around-my> **

Neither of them were terminal.

That’s what Martin kept in mind to justify turning it into a war. They would both be there for weeks but they could take the strain, to ease the boredom at least. It was just the two of them in their room with nothing but their books and the old hospital TV nailed to the wall – and one remote between them. He had been there for weeks already and he was losing his mind.

Douglas was the only thing keeping him sane, and yet he was the very thing that was driving Martin to the brink of madness.

At first, Martin had liked him. He had faced waking up alone in a hospital bed in a white-painted room with abject despair. Then he had looked to the side and there was another bed, with a man who was handsome and humming delightfully under his breath. He had a stack of books on his bedside table and met Martin’s gaze with a cheerful smile and a voice that was even nicer. He was charming and witty and entertaining, coming up with word games that were _still_ the only saving grace he had.

Now Douglas was the bane of his life. He sang when Martin wanted nothing but quiet. His head full of literature and wit pulled at all of his strings. He thought he was so damned good at everything, _especially_ the things that Martin failed to do.

Worst of all though, Douglas always had the remote. As long as Douglas was in control of the TV, Martin was forced to watch hours of old soap operas, cheap knock-offs of Antiques Roadshow and Bargain Hunt, and repeats of ITV dramas that hadn’t been aired in twenty years. Martin wanted to throttle him almost as much as he wanted to cover his own ears with his pillow and drown it all out.

When Martin had the remote, he watched documentaries. Douglas ruined them by making snide comments and _suddenly_ feeling the sting of his own recovery in a way he never did when _his_ shows were on.

“Will you _please_ shut up!” Martin growled one evening.

“What a horrible thing to say to a sick man,” Douglas drawled, completely unaffected. He lay back, folding his arms behind his head. “For that I deserve some kind of an apology.”

“You’re not having the remote,” Martin snapped. “You had it all of yesterday.”

It wasn’t all bad.

Martin would have been more miserable if Douglas wasn’t there. Douglas didn’t get as many visitors as he did. A young woman came once, his daughter, but only once. When Martin was surrounded by his siblings and his mother, wishing they would leave him in peace, he watched Douglas from the corner of his eye – watched him watching them with a sad expression and doleful eyes, passing the controls for his bed between his hands.

One of the things Martin liked about Douglas was that even though he pretended he was perfect – and he _drove him mad_ – Douglas _wasn’t_.

He was sneaky though.

One time, Martin was _sure_ he had the remote. He was feeling rather proud of it too.

“Good morning, Douglas!” he called out, turning towards the other bed. Douglas was always groggy in the morning, and he had only just returned from a shower that he wasn’t meant to be taking – but always did contrary to his doctors’ orders. “Any plans?”

“Oh, yes, ha ha... very funny, Martin,” Douglas drawled as he made himself comfy with the extra pillows – Martin wasn’t sure where he had found them – and turned towards Martin. Even from afar, his eyes were soft and difficult to look away from. “You know, I’m sure I’ve got a very _busy_ viewing schedule lined up.”

“Y-you might think that, but...” Martin grinned as he slid a hand beneath his sheets – and his fingers closed around nothing. “Hold on-”

He glanced across the room and froze when he saw Douglas waving the remote in the air.

“H-how did you... I haven’t left my bed!”

“And yet, here it is,” Douglas replied with a smirk. “If you’re going to play, Martin, you should make it more of a challenge. _Honestly_.”

As the tinkling tune of a period drama’s introductory sequence filled the room, Martin huffed and folded his arms – catching them on the tubes. Instead of giving in and watching Douglas’ show, he glared at Douglas. He knew that Douglas could see him. His cheeks were twitching and he looked far too proud of himself. That made it all the more worth it, even if his cheeks burned and he began to feel a little silly.

~~~

Martin knew Douglas wasn’t sleeping. The curtains were drawn between them but he could _hear_ Douglas frowning to himself and wallowing in self-pity. There had been a heated phone call shortly after noon, and then Martin had been left with the remote for the rest of the day. Having control of the TV wasn’t quite as sweet when Douglas was tight-lipped and refusing to take part in any games. He didn’t even make fun of him when he spilled his lunch while reaching for something else.

Doing his best not to get tangled in the tubes and sheets and whatever else he was wired up to, Martin found his way to his feet and crossed the dark room. His fingers twitched against the curtain before swallowing his trepidation and pushing it aside, poking his head through to the other side.

“Everything alright, Douglas?”

“Fine, Martin.”

Douglas didn’t make any effort to get up. He was still sitting upright, slouched but definitely not sleeping, staring at the back of his hands. When Martin approached him, he looked up and sighed, rolling his eyes. He shifted his feet to the side so that Martin could sit down.

They weren’t often so close. Martin placed a comforting hand on Douglas’ ankle, and then removed it.

“So... I-I’ve been let go,” he said. “It was a terrible job anyway – courier service, not an airline. A-and I’ve still got a van, but... I’ve been away so long, you know...”

“They can’t do that,” Douglas said, brow furrowing as he turned slightly. His leg ended up pressed against Martin’s with the sheet between them, and some of the distracted misery left his demeanour. “There are laws, surely... I’m not entirely familiar with them, but I _know_ they can’t fire you for being ill.”

“It’s alright,” Martin shrugged. “Saves me the trouble of resigning. I-I can look elsewhere now.”

“Hmmm...”

For a while, they sat in silence. Then Douglas exhaled slowly and pursed his lips.

“It was just a row, with an ex,” he said. When Martin didn’t jump in immediately, he continued. “She’s normally lovely, despite the... split. It’s just difficult for her while I’m in here, not earning, not sending support, not able to take my daughter off her hands for a few days... and she won’t travel all the way down here to see me.”

“But once you’re out?”

“Once I’m out everything will go back to normal,” Douglas sighed. “Not much use to me _now_ though.”

In spite of his foul mood, Douglas smiled when he met Martin’s eyes. When Martin rose, he patted Douglas’ shoulder. He left the curtain pushed aside when he returned to his bed, so that he could toss the remote across the room. It landed with a flump near Douglas’ knee, and Martin was pleased to hear Douglas let out a soft laugh.

~~~

Douglas was still there when Martin was released. It was a surprise, as he had always seemed so much more active than him, but Douglas didn’t make a fuss. He let Martin go with a simple goodbye before turning his attention back towards the TV.

It wasn’t long before Martin began to miss Douglas.

It was three days before he returned to the hospital, with a bag of fine cheeses tucked beneath his arm. Douglas had expressed a liking for them. They were expensive, but worth it.

The hospital room was quiet when Martin arrived. The bed he had stayed in was occupied and the curtains were drawn. He made his way around the edge of the room, cautious in case Douglas had been moved or allowed to go home. To his relief – although he felt guilty being glad that Douglas was still sick – he was met with the same handsome face and a familiar bored expression.

“Shouldn’t you be catching up on some tedious show from the fifties?” Martin asked instead of announcing himself.

Douglas looked up and the surprise that crossed his face was mingled with something bright and rather lovely – and Martin felt the same smile erupt on his own face. He hid it quickly and offered up the bag of cheeses. Douglas accepted it and slid his legs across the bed so that Martin could sit down.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” Douglas remarked. He shot him a pointed glance as he rifled through the bag.

Martin shrugged and awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Thought it was a good way to waste a few hours,” he said. “There’s nothing good on TV at the moment.”

Douglas snorted. He caught Martin’s eye and laughter bubbled up in Martin’s chest. Shifting further onto the bed, Martin rested a hand on Douglas’ ankle and began filling him in on the nightmare that was moving back into a home after being absent for weeks. Douglas had a lot to say, but for once Martin latched onto every spark of wit, and Douglas’ eyes didn’t leave his face.


	26. Chapter 26

**“I walk in on you correcting people’s misspelled bathroom graffiti” au – this isn’t an AU either. It’s so Martin though. And possibly Douglas too... he’s very big on words and grammar too. You know what? I was about to write a fic in which Martin corrects bathroom grammar, but I’ve changed my mind.**

**From this post:** [ **http://levhaibas.tumblr.com/post/101617073705/some-au-ideas-that-have-been-floating-around-my** ](http://levhaibas.tumblr.com/post/101617073705/some-au-ideas-that-have-been-floating-around-my)

In their relationship, Martin was the pedantic one on all matters except one. If there was one thing that Douglas was passionate about, it was _words_ – it was a wonder he wasn’t on the stage or writing tomes instead of flying planes, but Martin supposed that Douglas had a certain restlessness that couldn’t be satiated by sitting still. He liked to show off and that could only be done by travelling far and wide.

Nobody, with the exception of Carolyn, Arthur, and Herc, were aware of this. Douglas was a king at playing it cool and he had a reputation to maintain.

It was a pleasant surprise, therefore, when Martin walked into the bathroom in an airport south of the equator to find Douglas etching an apostrophe onto the wall alongside the mirror. He was using a basic biro, scratching away and frowning to himself as he struggled to make a mark. His focus was so intense that at first he didn’t seem to notice Martin’s appearance.

Hanging back to watch, Martin made no effort to hide a smirk.

As much as he adored Douglas, the best part of knowing him – the thing that turned love into a sheer rush of pleasure – was when he was _winning_. It was once in a blue moon that Martin was the one making fun instead of being the butt of a joke.

Knowing that he couldn’t stay hidden for long, Martin cleared his throat.

Douglas startled and slipped the pen into his sleeve in a practiced motion so smooth that Martin momentarily doubted its existence.

“Martin, there you are. I was just coming.”

“You _weren’t_ ,” Martin trilled, hands behind his back as he sauntered – _tried_ to saunter – further into the bathroom. He saw Douglas’ feigned expression fall, replaced by a roll of his eyes and a sigh, and those defeated lines around his lips that he liked so much. “I saw what you were doing – you can’t hide _anything_ from me.”

“Evidence to the contrary,” Douglas muttered. With a hand on Martin’s shoulder, he tried to usher him towards the door. “Come on, we’re late.”

“I _saw_ , Douglas,” Martin insisted, grinning as he let himself be pushed from the room and out into the open space of the airport. There were people rushing around them, others milling amidst the little shops, and Martin made sure to stay close and lean in so that Douglas could hear him. “You were correcting the grammar on the wall – you carry a pen around specially-”

“I carry a pen around in case I come across a crossword,” Douglas said curtly.

“ _Sure_ you do-”

“You should know, Martin, if this goes any further than the two of us, I _may_ find myself suddenly occupied this weekend,” Douglas interjected, and he shot Martin a stern sideways glance. There was no heat in his tone, but Martin could tell from the way he held his hands in his pockets and his arms slightly closer to his body that he was wounded – or maybe just worried that Carolyn might find herself with something else to play with. Douglas continued as if Martin hadn’t been looking. “As it is, I was quite looking forward to our plans.”

“Yes, alright,” Martin sighed. He nudged Douglas in the ribs as they paused to let a troupe of pilots in far nicer looking uniforms pass. “But don’t think I’ll forget about it. Now I’ve got this, I’m not letting it go.”

Douglas harrumphed, but he let the matter drop.

He didn’t stop though. Now that Martin knew what to look for, he caught Douglas correcting the grammar on bathroom stalls, desks in airport lounges, and even on some cheaply printed posters in the airport visitors’ centres they passed by. He always frowned when he did, scraping away with his biro and shaking the damned pen, struggling to make the corrections that he wanted to make.

It was an odd little habit – quaint, and yet adorably Douglas. It was just a thing he did, the same way Arthur always sang a clumsy tune in his head when he was trying to remember things – always the same tune, although Martin had yet to work out how it applied to any of the things he needed to remember.

“They left out a comma,” Martin remarked one evening, as they sat in a fancy restaurant. As the heat in Douglas’ glare reached him, he raised his menu a little higher so that he couldn’t see his smirk.

Martin knew that he had teased _too much_ when Douglas stopped carrying a pen around with him. Honestly, he had been thinking of telling him to throw away the old biro – it was useless on anything but paper. Still, it was sad to see him stop when Douglas would still sit beside him on the sofa of an evening and correct the verbal inaccuracies in soap operas and game shows – he didn’t just answer the questions, he corrected their syntax.

Martin supposed it might be funny to see how these people might react, but he remembered a long past moment in which a shouty Mr Sergeant had shut Douglas down when he had questioned the use of ‘glid’ in a sentence. Apparently not everyone enjoyed grammar as much as Douglas, or liked being right as much as Martin.

It was only then, resting his head on Douglas’ shoulder and letting Mastermind wash over him, that Martin realised he was probably one of the few people to find Douglas’ obsession sweet rather than annoying. He was also struck with the realisation that that was how Douglas must feel when it came to _him_ and his love of aviation.

The porta-cabin was quiet when Martin reached into his desk for his recent purchase. Arthur was flicking through the recycling bin to make sure that Carolyn hadn’t thrown away anything that needed shredding, and Carolyn was in her office, having a heated row with one of their former clients.

Leaning over so that he could reach Douglas’ desk, Martin slid the pack of thick, black permanent markers under Douglas’ nose. Douglas hadn’t been doing paperwork so much as reading a dog-eared Austen, which he had picked up when his phone bleeped to tell him that Angry Birds had drained the battery. His eyes reached Martin’s face before his head tilted upwards, and he raised an eyebrow.

“I-I thought you’d have a bit more luck with those,” Martin said, tipping his chin towards the pens. “They’re actually meant for different surfaces.”

At first, Douglas didn’t say a word. Then his expression softened and he reached for the box, slipping one pen from the others and tucking it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he placed the rest of the box inside his desk drawer.

Martin’s heart warmed a little as Douglas made a point of looking back to his book, pursing his lips to hide a smile and clearing his throat as if he had wanted to say something, but it had lodged in his throat. A moment later, he felt Douglas’ foot brush past his, and his ankle came to rest against his calf.

Well aware that that was the best he was going to get, Martin sighed fondly and went back to work, taking care not to look up when he felt Douglas’ eyes on him.


	27. Chapter 27

**“You thought you were kidnapping your best friend for a bachelor party but you kidnapped me (a stranger) on accident” au – another uni AU, hooray!**

**From this post:<http://tea-and-outer-space.tumblr.com/post/106460870203/aus-part-2>**

“Are you sure this is where Herc said he’d be?” Douglas asked as he rapped his fingers along the top of the steering wheel. On the other side of the windscreen, there were only the headlights and the orange glow of the streetlamps to light Fitton’s dark streets. “You didn’t _tell_ him what we’re planning, did you?”

“No, I _didn’t_ ,” Arthur insisted. He was leaning as much against the passenger side window as he could, peering out into the night. “I asked him questions, like you said.”

“Were they by any chance questions that would give Herc an idea of what we’ve planned?”

“Well... okay, but don’t be mad, Douglas,” Arthur said, turning away from the window. “Herc _probably_ knows we’re planning a stag party. I mean, he’s getting married. We weren’t going to just not give him a party, were we?”

“Any opportunity for a party,” Douglas sighed.

“Exactly!” Arthur agreed. “But I didn’t say _anything_ about kidnapping him.”

“Good... good...” Douglas muttered as he searched the street.

Soon, he saw a figure striding along the road. As he inched the car nearer, he held up a finger to silence Arthur and leaned closer to the windscreen. A glimpse of the man’s face proved that it _was_ Herc, turning into another side-street, where the car couldn’t follow. Douglas knew that it led to a corner shop and some other interesting places. It was just like Herc to be running out for milk mere days before his wedding. He was practical.

“Alright, Arthur, here we go,” Douglas instructed as he pulled up alongside the pavement. “If you mess this up-”

“I _won’t_.”

“Good, let’s go.”

Together they left the car. It was a risk leaving the engine running but Douglas left the doors locked and hoped that nobody took it in the five minutes he was gone. Arthur fetched the blanket from the back seat and they made their way into the side-street. There were a few people there, all dark shapes in the poor light, but Douglas identified the one that walked with Herc’s gait, head down, hood up, in no hurry to go anywhere.

Finger to his lips, Douglas moved away from Arthur and they caught up with Herc. He didn’t turn at the sound of their feet. To be honest, Arthur’s footsteps were so loud and clumsy that nobody in their right mind would think he was aiming for stealth.

When Herc was within reach, Douglas nodded, Arthur threw the blanket over Herc’s head and wrapped his arms around him, and Herc let out a high-pitched squawk of surprise. Herc flailed even more as Douglas caught him around the shoulders and guided him back towards the road.

“We did it!” Arthur exclaimed.

“That we did, Arthur,” Douglas replied with a grin. His frowned as Herc continued to struggle. He would have thought he would have given up by now and seen the fun in it. “Come on, Herc – you _knew_ we wouldn’t let you go without a decent stag. Tonight we’ll drink – well, _you’ll_ drink to your heart’s content – we’ll dance, we’ll sing, we’ll have a jolly good time of it. One last hurrah before you’re tethered for life.”

The muffled squawking continued.

They got Herc into the car without too much difficulty – in the passenger seat, with Arthur in the back, so that there was one less thing for him to complain about. Once the doors were locked so that Herc couldn’t bail on them, Douglas whipped the blanket from his head.

It wasn’t Herc.

Douglas hastily leaned back against the driver’s side door as Arthur did the same in the back, veering away from the ginger haired, freckle cheeked, and absolutely _furious_ man sitting beside them. He looked to be about their age, and practically shaking with what Douglas had first assumed was fear, but now realised was indignation. He had expected an irritable Herc – not a red-faced stranger trembling with _rage_.

“Um, Douglas...”

“Yes, I _know_ , Arthur,” Douglas replied.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” the stranger demanded. “Wh-what the _hell-_ ”

“There’s been a bit of a mix up,” Douglas started, and was promptly cut off.

“ _Obviously_! Wh-what kind of stupid idea was _this_?” the stranger seethed, scowling and pointing at the blanket in Douglas’ lap. He huffed when Douglas tucked the blanket closer to his chest. “What – y-you just grab me off the street-”

“We thought you were Herc,” Arthur piped up.

“Oh, I heard!” the stranger snapped. “Some stag do this would have been – y-you think your friend would have appreciated being snatched off the street, b-because _I_ didn’t! Did you not even _check_ who you were grabbing? What a clever idea – how great! Was it _your_ idea, hm, mastermind?”

The stranger pointed furiously at Arthur, who threw his hands up in surrender.

“I’m not a mastermind,” Arthur said. “Ask anyone! I’m not.”

“It was _my_ idea, and I’m _very_ sorry,” Douglas cut in before the stranger could do more than scowl at Arthur and turn his gaze on him. He reached behind him to unlock the car doors, but the stranger made no attempt to leave. “I’m sorry we ruined your night, and gave you a shock.” The man looked no more impressed, and Douglas attempted a charming smile. “In my defence, our friend would have found this _hilarious_.”

“Oh, _yes_ , y-you’re a comic genius,” the stranger snapped.

Wounded, knowing that he shouldn’t have been, Douglas pouted and folded his arms.

“I like to think so.”

“I-I bet you do.”

“Well, if that’s all,” Douglas prompted. He cleared his throat and shot a pointed glare at the door behind the stranger’s back.

The stranger’s expression cleared for a fraction of a second. For a moment, Douglas thought that the man must have been _enjoying_ arguing. The next, the door was open and he was climbing from the car. Douglas watched him go, eyes on his face, admiring the petulant set of his jaw and the heat in his eyes.

“Oops,” Arthur said from the backseat.

Douglas jumped. He had forgotten he was there.

“Do you think Herc’s still here?” Arthur asked.

“No, we’ll have to pick him up at home,” Douglas murmured as he started the engine. As he started down the road, he saw that the stranger was walking in the same direction they were going. Ignoring Arthur’s questions, he pulled up alongside him again and let the window roll down, beeping the horn to get his attention. “Hey, you. I think we owe you an apology.”

“You already apologised,” the stranger shot back.

“How about a drink then?” Douglas called. “There’s going to be plenty at the stag do.”

The stranger stopped and bent down, to look through the window.

“The name’s Douglas,” Douglas said. He nodded towards the backseat. “This is Arthur.”

“Martin,” the man replied. Scowling, shaking his head as if to himself, he huffed and climbed back into the passenger seat. When he caught Douglas’ eye, he glared through the windscreen. “Don’t think I-I’ve forgiven you for grabbing me off the street. This better be a good party. It’s not like I had anything better to do tonight.”


	28. Chapter 28

Throughout her admittedly short life, Carolyn Knapp had valued  _one_   _thing_  – control. Not in the power hungry way that Ruth accused her of, although she wouldn’t turn that down if it floundered willingly into arm’s reach, but control over her own life.

It was why she had shirked the weight of running the sweetshop – she couldn’t stand the idea of being trapped in the same generation-old loop, becoming a slave to a shop that couldn’t exist without them, but somehow ruled the lives of every woman in the family since her great-great-great grandmother.

It was why she had reluctantly struck out into the world without a shred of financial assistance from her father, finding a flat-share in the city and a series of small jobs paying petty money – she was poor and often unemployed, even more regularly unhappy, but she was free to do as she wished within reason, meet who she liked, and enjoy all the freedoms that many young women couldn’t.

It was why… and Carolyn had to weigh up her morals and her pride here… why she didn’t immediately jump for joy when she got the letter of acceptance – employment as a stewardess for a small airline.

The job was everything she wanted – it sent a rush of thrills through her core and a childish giddiness to her head. She had always wanted to travel the world and see extraordinary places. She looked forwards to  _flying_ , far from the ground. She breathed a sigh of relief at the generous pay. And yet… there was no inkling of control over her own life in the offer of a job. She remembered the interview – she had talked and talked and she had seen in the faces of her interviewers that they weren’t hearing a word.

They were  _seeing_  a lot.

There wasn’t a doubt in Carolyn’s mind that they had hired her because they knew she would look good in the uniform. She had nothing against women who were beautiful – didn’t resent them using that beauty to get ahead in the world.

It wasn’t what she wanted though. Because there was no freedom or control in getting a job in which she had to look nice, sweeten her tone, and follow the orders of older pilots and rude passengers. Maybe she could convince herself that she was playing them – but she knew that that wouldn’t be true. Convincing herself that she held all the cards wasn’t satisfying. Unfortunately, neither was unemployment and homelessness.

So, Carolyn tried to swallow her distaste as she smoothed down the neat lines of her uniform and grimaced into the mirror. She held her tongue on the bus to work and made a point not to jab her elbow into the gut of whoever swayed too close. She moved between the airport and the aircraft without paying much attention to anything at all. It was a job, after all, and a job that she had wanted.

Carolyn hadn’t wanted to feel as swamped as this.

The flight was loud and messy. There were children and elderly grumps and middle aged people of all genders and variations and Carolyn’s head was ringing by the time the cabin levelled out. There were three of them seeing to the passengers, another girl younger than her and a senior member of staff who was nursing a hangover in the galley.

Carolyn was pinching the bridge of her nose when an argument broke out halfway along the cabin – stretching across the aisle. The other girl squeaked and scurried to her side, and the senior staff member grumbled.

It wasn’t until a cup of tea went flying across the aisle that Carolyn’s patience snapped.

“Right,  _you_  – be quiet!  _You!_  – Give that here!” Carolyn marched down the aisle, snatching anything that looked projectile from the culprits and glared down at them. Silence fell person by person as they fell under her gaze. “ _You_  apologise –  _you_  take that down to the front and put it away. Now, everyone else  _sit down and shut up before I wring your necks!”_

For the rest of the flight, Carolyn ran the flight like a well oiled machine – ship-shape. There were grumbles but they shut up completely when Carolyn snapped at them. By the time the Captain instructed the cabin crew to prepare for landing, she was pacing up and down with her hands on her hips, head high, lips twitched into a smirk as eyes hastily turned away from her instead of lingering on the uniform and the curve of her backside. Every seatbelt was secured and every tray-table folded away without complaint.

This, Carolyn thought, was control. It was a better thrill than anything she had ever experienced. Nothing in the world would make her give it up any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the wealth of potential Carolyn's past has. I might write a few more of these just about her and her life leading up to MJN when I get the time.


	29. Chapter 29

Depending on what mood she was in, Carolyn would say anything about love.

If you pushed her in just the right direction, she would admit that once upon a time she had been a girl whose heart toppled so easily she might as well live in a cartoon, until the years and various people whose names she wished she could forget tossed that same heart aside. She was a proud cynic who wasn’t proud of it at all. It took a lot more than prodding – more like careful unravelling – to encourage Carolyn to admit that although the girl was gone, her heart was still there, hiding away behind white hair and a faux-hatred of opera.

Carolyn tried not to say anything about love on her last wedding day – the best really. She didn’t have to. It was strange, really, Carolyn knew as she resisted the urge to push against Herc and let him lead the circles they were turning around Fitton’s community centre dance hall. She had told Herc once... told him more than she liked to think about love, and he had scooped up that girl’s heart, put it somewhere safe, and promised not to make her talk about love unless she was very, _very_ drunk and maybe not even then.

It was strange, Carolyn knew.

As she let herself be held, and accepted the warm of a man who took the steps to their first dance far too seriously, Carolyn couldn’t help but think of love. Despite all of her best efforts, it surrounded her, and it was all her fault really.

There was Arthur, beaming and dancing out of time – the one person whose love she had never doubted, and who had never made her question it. It was a different kind. Arthur loved everything and everyone, no matter whether they deserved it. He was twirling Theresa around the dance floor, spinning her so hard Carolyn was afraid the princess might lose an arm, and Theresa was laughing out loud, pressing her fingers over her lips. Theresa glowed with a different kind of love as well. It was the kind that didn’t care that Martin was on the other side of the room bickering with his ex-First-Officer, because it understood that best friends had their own kind as well, and that there was no hierarchy.

It was a love of joy as well. It was impossible to tell whether Theresa was simply alight with it herself, or whether Arthur’s kind of love was infectious.

Carolyn’s eyes found Martin and Douglas by the open bar, sipping a steady stream of soft drinks, Martin going red in the face as he disputed Douglas’ cool – but smirking, like a child on the playground – opinion of something or other. There again, was a different kind of love, completely unique to them – that devoted brand of adoration that grew between friends that by all rights should have known each other since birth, but in lieu of that spent every moment together seeing exactly how far they could push each other. It didn’t matter that Douglas had stopped believing in love, of a spouse or a child, or that Martin was still so nervous despite knowing that Theresa wasn’t going anywhere – theirs was a safe kind of love, with no intimacy, or romance, but enough of something to keep them coming back.

She had built that, Carolyn realised... through greed and a lack of proper workplace practices, perhaps, but she had gone and done it.

Carolyn settled closer to Herc, and rested her cheek on his shoulder. The old cynic in her didn’t have the energy to war with the lovestruck girl, or the even younger cynic that had wanted nothing but a high-flying job. Every single one of them hadn’t anticipated this moment, married again and surrounded by so many kinds of love that she couldn’t fight it even if she wanted to.

She was the last person to deserve it, she knew, but Carolyn didn’t want to spare love any more space in her head than it had already stolen... so she said nothing, and pretended that it pained her to enjoy it. 


End file.
